


The Wanderers

by brightfallenstars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Angst, Drugs, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's Bad Parenting, M/M, Prostitution, Violence, alternative universe, prostitute!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightfallenstars/pseuds/brightfallenstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When money is short and John leaves Dean to care for Sam most days, Dean struggles to keep their heads above water. Constantly moving from town to town makes it difficult to find work, so he takes to selling his body on the streets. Until one day when he meets a man who dreams of the stars and teaches Dean that it's okay to want a better life for himself. </p><p>In-progress fic. No underage sex or prostitution. Dean and Cas are both in their twenties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's a chilly night. Dean's in a pair of slim jeans and a tank top and he's shivering. But it's easier to get guys' attention this way when he walks the streets. They don't have to do a double-take, unsure if he's really offering the services they think he is. 

Still, Dean finds himself wishing he didn't have to be out tonight. It's quiet, dark and it's been drizzling a little. There's a 'Die Hard' marathon on TV probably right this minute and he wanted to watch it with Sam. But they're behind 500 dollars on the gas bills this month and Sam needs new school books, so Dean needs to take all the extra nights he can. 

He sighs, kicks a pebble that lands in a gutter and decides to head back towards the parking lot one more time. He sticks his hand into his pocket and squeezes the bundle of cash. It's a small handful. There's exactly 39 dollars and 34 cents. 

He looks up when a pick up truck drives by slowly and he mentally prepares himself, but they flip the turn lights and head down the left fork in the road. He lingers a little at the parking lot entry, wraps his arm around a lamp post and scans the area. Maybe he should just head back home and try again tomorrow. If he's lucky, he can still catch a bit of the movie with Sam before they go to bed. 

Right as he finishes that thought, a silver Prius parks by the side of the road in front of him and the man in the driver's seat rolls down his window and waves him over. 

Dean's eyebrows raise. 

This is definitely the first time he's getting fucked in the back seat of a Prius. Maybe the guy's a family man. 

He plasters on his most confident smile and walks over to the car. When he gets there, he bends over and leans his forearms on the car door, eyes wide and playful. “So what can I do for you tonight, sir?” he asks, giving the man a very obvious once-over. He's not as old as most of Dean's clients, with dark brown hair, day old stubble and piercing light blue eyes. Not bad looking, either.

The man smiles pleasantly and reaches for a map on the passenger seat and Dean frowns a little because the dude has a brand new GPS system attached to the dashboard of his car.

“Can you tell me where the Reynolds Motel is?” he asks and holds out the map and his voice is deeper and rougher than Dean had anticipated. 

Dean stares at him for a moment. He had expected a completely different conversation. “It's uh.. Just around the corner.” He points. “You just can't see the sign from this side, but just continue ahead and you'll spot it.” 

The man nods and puts down the map, then extends his hand for Dean to shake. “Thank you.” Dean grips his hand and shakes it a little awkwardly. The man makes to get ready to leave when he pauses and looks back at Dean. “Aren't you cold?”

Dean blinks and shrugs. He has a million lines he can use, right at the tip of his tongue. 

'A little, wanna warm me up?', 'Looking for some company?' 

But they all fail him cause the guy looks genuinely concerned in a not at all sexy way. 

“It's not so bad. I'm used to it,” Dean just says instead, and flashes him and smile and the man nods again, slowly. 

“Well, have a good night,” he tells Dean and puts his finger on the button that rolls up the window and it takes Dean a few seconds to realise he's waiting for him to remove his arms from the door. 

“Uh, yeah. Good night,” Dean answers and steps back, and the window slides up and the guy drives away. Dean watches as he makes the left turn as instructed, headed for the motel. 

And then Dean is left there with all his talents and all his useless flirtations. 

He'd almost be offended, if it wasn't kinda funny. People don't usually ask prostitutes for directions. But then again, it didn't even really seem like the man was aware that he was a prostitute, no matter how obvious Dean tried to make it by smiling suggestively and batting his eyelashes. Way to be dense. 

But still, the guy had been kinda hot. 

Dean would certainly have preferred to have been on his back in that Prius, when the next potential client that pulls over next to him is a balding guy in his fifties with a beer belly, wearing a shirt that looks like it has gotten into contact with more mayonnaise than washing powder in it's lifetime. 

But hey, money is money. 

\-------

Dean has been at the Reynolds Motel more than a few times. Not all his clients that pick him up by the side of the road are creeps. Some of them are regular dudes, middle-class with nice cars who don't mind renting a motel room for just an hour or two. 

In turn, those clients are often far more creative and experimental than the truckers that are only driving through and want a quick fuck or a blow. 

Dean has left the Reynolds Motel more than a few times with rope burns around his wrists or ankles and soreness in other places than just his ass, but he would still pick those clients over the truckers any day. It's better than back seats and alleyways, and they generally tend to shave and shower more than a couple times a month. 

That, and they tip. Sometimes generously. 

Tonight is one of those nights. 

Dean's client is a man in his late forties with dark, slicked back hair that's greying at the sides.  
He orders a cheap, crappy wine for them to share, and although Dean generally has a rule not to accept any kind of food or drinks his clients buy him, he figures the motel staff probably isn't out to drug him. So he goes along with it, so long as he gets to pour it himself and finish it in one go. His client agrees. 

It's a pretty average fuck. Not unpleasant, but not overly exciting either. 

Dean is face down on the bed, the client's hands braced on the backs of his shoulders as he drives into him hard and fast, grunting and chasing his own orgasm. Dean moans like the whore he's paid to be and pushes back against the man's thrusts and before long, it's over, and Dean's 80 dollars richer. Nice. The client leaves him a 20 dollar tip for Dean's good company, and it adds up to the best job he's done in a while. 

His client leaves the room first, not wanting them to be seen together any more than necessary, and Dean's fine with that. It gives him a few minutes to clean up and brush himself off and take a breather before he has to go out there and do it again. 

This time though, when he leaves the room and the door locks after him, Dean looks right up into light blue eyes he has seen before. He pauses, and so does the man, and then he smiles at Dean and walks from his car to the motel room door right next to Dean's. 

“Hello again,” the guy says, with that rough voice that sounds like it was made for dirty talk. 

“Hey. I see you found the place.” Dean swallows and rubs his neck. He wonders if he saw the client that just left and if he finally figured out what Dean's doing here. But hey, it's not like it matters.

“I sure did. And I see you're wearing a jacket today,” he says, and gestures to the leather jacket Dean just put on. 

That makes Dean smile. A real, genuine smile. “Yeah, you were right. I can't afford to get sick.”

He nods. “I'm Castiel, by the way. It's nice to see you again,” he says, and it sounds so honest that Dean's taken aback for a moment before he remembers his manners. Castiel? Not the kind of name he had expected the guy to have. 

“I'm Dean,” he says and rubs the back of his neck. He lingers, and Castiel fiddles with his keys, but doesn't open the door, apparently waiting to see if Dean's gonna keep talking. 

So he continues, cause he's curious.

“Hey, uh.. I noticed you have a GPS in your car, but you're using a folding map?” 

Castiel chuckles. It's a soft sound, considering the roughness of his voice. 

“I'm not very good with technology. My brother got it for me, but I never figured the damn thing out. I never even got through the manual. The lady kept talking at me. She sounds so condescending.” He frowns like he's genuinely offended and Dean chuckles.  
He almost offers to teach him how it works, but that would be a weird thing to offer a complete stranger he's only ever met on a street corner and in the parking lot of a crappy motel. So he just shrugs. 

“Well, have a good night, Dean,” Castiel says, gives him the barest hint of a smile and finally turns towards his motel door. 

“You, too.”

\-------

All things considered, turning tricks is not so bad. Sure, if he had had other options, he would have taken those instead. But getting work at a diner or the local car shop isn't so easy when you keep moving to a new town every couple months. 

He tried. In the beginning. 

But sometimes there just isn't any work. Or he's under-qualified. Or whatever else bullshit excuse they decide to give him. This is easier. 

And it's good money.

On an average night, he can bring in around 150 bucks. On a really good night, it's closer to 250. And the most he ever made was just under 380 dollars. 

It does help that he's young and pretty. 

And all his hard work is instantly worth it when he slams a hundred bucks down on the kitchen counter and proclaims to Sammy that they're going to the mall tomorrow. The light in Sam's eyes makes it all worth it. Especially when Sam hugs him and calls him the best big brother ever. 

Of course, Sam doesn't know how he brings in the money. For all he knows, Dean works night shifts in a bar. He's only ever asked to come along once, and Dean told him it wasn't really a place for kids. Sam had scowled and told him being almost 16 meant he wasn't a kid anymore, but he hadn't asked again. 

Their dad, of course, has no idea what he's doing. 

\-------

Dean's at the Reynolds Motel again the next night. It's the same guy from yesterday, with the slicked back hair and the crappy wine. Dean doesn't know his name, but it's not important. Most of his clients don't ask for his, either. 

But his performance tonight is important. He knows now that the guy pays well, and he clearly likes what Dean has to offer. So Dean decides to up his game a little tonight, in the hopes that Mr. Slick here might just become a regular. Which would make Dean's life just a little easier.

He orders the same cheap wine and Dean is on his lap already before they're done drinking it. 

He rolls his hips slowly and he can feel the man's erection against the inside of his thigh. Dean lets him hold the wine glass to his lips and he drinks obediently. Normally, something like that would irk him, but for the one-hundred bucks that are already tucked away in Dean's jacket pocket, he's willing to let go of a bit of his pride. 

Everything happens quickly after that. They both undress frantically, Dean's practically thrown face first onto the bed and he hears the sound of condom packaging being ripped open. The sex is hard and rough, more so than yesterday, but it's not something Dean isn't used to and he puts on a damn good act.

The guy leaves before Dean has even gotten up from the bed and is still laying on his front, panting and sweaty. It takes a few minutes before he musters the strength to get up and walks out into the bathroom to clean himself off.

What he sees in the mirror makes him wince. There's a red bite mark on his neck that's sore when he touches it. He hadn't even noticed the guy biting him, and he swears under his breath cause he usually charges extra if clients want to mark him up. 

Guess he'll just have to make that clear if the guy decides to come around again.

His hand is shaking when he lowers it and he frowns, looking down at it as he turns it over slowly. 

When he looks back up into the mirror, he has to squint. His own reflection is blurry, hard to focus on. He rubs at his eyes as he staggers into the lounge, but it doesn't seem to help. He almost bumps into the small dining table and then he stops in his tracks. 

He stares down at the empty wine glass as bile rises to the back of his throat and his heart starts to pound. 

He's an idiot. 

A complete, stupid, useless, dumb, fucking idiot. 

He let his guard down. He hadn't kept an eye on his own glass. Hell, the client had it in his hands several times when Dean had been on his lap, too busy daydreaming of the cash he was getting. 

Tears burn in his eyes and he slams a fist down on the table as equal parts fear and anger fight for dominance inside him. It's getting hard to walk, let alone stand. The whole room is spinning and tilting and his heart is beating so fast it feels like it's gonna push right through his ribcage. 

He makes it to the window and pulls the curtain aside just an inch. Fear makes his breath catch in his throat. The guy's car is still out there. He's waiting. Waiting for Dean to pass out so he can come back in and grab him and do God knows what to him. 

What should he do? What the fuck should he do? 

He can't make a run for it. He can barely walk straight. He has his phone with him, but who should he call? He doesn't know anybody here. All he has is Sam and dad and they are absolutely out of the question. 

He can't call the cops. What he's doing isn't exactly legal. He also can't call an ambulance. They'll ask questions. And probably notify his family, too. 

With a groan, he sits down on the couch and hides his face in his hands. He can't just stay here. He's a sitting duck. How could he have been so fucking stupid?

Suddenly, an idea comes to him. He lifts his head and looks at the far wall. 

Castiel is in the room just next to this one. 

It's a stupid idea. A really stupid idea. And it's definitely not fair to the guy, either. 

But Dean doesn't know what else to do. 

He can only pray that Castiel isn't out somewhere. 

He gets up, almost loses his balance and braces a hand against the back of the couch. He makes it halfway to the front door before he realises he's still naked and there's a frustrated sound in his throat as he turns around and painstakingly stumbles his way to the bedroom. 

How much time does he have before he's out cold?

He drank the wine at least half an hour ago. 

He clings to the door frame, feeling disoriented and sick and he reaches for the dresser and knocks something onto the floor that shatters, but he doesn't see what it is. His clothes are in a pile on top of the dresser.

Getting dressed proves an almost impossible task. He ends up sitting at the foot of the bed as he pulls on his jeans and he barely manages to zip them, he's shaking so bad. He decides to forget about his socks and shirt and pushes himself up. 

He doesn't feel the cold when he steps outside. 

Out here, he's vulnerable. He's acutely aware of the van parked right on the opposite side of the parking lot, but he doesn't turn his head to look at it as he walks the few meters to the next motel room door, both hands braced against the wall. 

He knocks and waits, focuses on willing his legs to keep him upright just a little longer. He knocks again. Why is no one answering?  
He sees the headlights of the van behind him turn on and feels panic rise inside him. He pounds his fist against the door, leans his whole body against it and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Castiel isn't there. This is it. This is how it ends. Sammy's gonna find his brother cut up into little tiny pieces at the side of the road and he's gonna know what a complete, disgusting failure he is. 

The door opens inwards suddenly and Dean stumbles forward a step, then looks up. 

Castiel is standing in front of him, squinting in the light, hair a mess and t-shirt askew. 

Relief washes over him, and it isn't till now that he realises he's crying, tears streaming down his face. “Can I come in? Please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first multi-chapter fic! It wasn't really planned, it just sort of spurred from my interest in prostitute!dean and then a ficlet turned into a fully fledged fic and here we are! I don't have much experience and english is not my native language, so updates might be a tad slow, but I'm gonna try to get a chapter out every week! I'm aiming for the finished fic to be around 35k words.  
> Tags and cast list will be updated as the fic updates!  
> If you spot any grammar or spelling errors, you're welcome to notify me in the comments and I'll fix it!  
> Comments in general are always appreciated. You guys keep me going!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support and encouragement. The first chapter of this story got a lot more attention than I thought it would and it's really encouraging. I'm sorry this chapter is not as long, but the next one is likely gonna be longer than both of them.

Castiel opens the door all the way and Dean stumbles forward right into his arms. Maybe he should be embarrassed, ashamed, but the only emotion there's room for inside him is relief. Castiel's hands are soft and warm on his bare shoulders and he pulls Dean against him so he can let go of him with one hand and lock the door. 

“Please,” Dean whimpers again, and it's muffled because his face is pressed against Castiel's chest. He smells good. Like coffee and something sweet, Dean can't make out what is. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice tense as he pushes Dean back a little so he can wrap an arm around him and help him over to the couch. “What happened? Are you hurt?” 

Dean groans when he's put down on the couch. He goes down willingly, his muscles like jelly and even that little bit of movement makes him want to sleep for a thousand years. “I got drugged,” he mumbles, and he watches Castiel's eyes widen. He crouches in front of him. 

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” 

Dean whimpers again and he tries to shake his head, but even that seems like way too much effort and suddenly the whole room tilts and he's going down.

Castiel catches his head in his hands so he doesn't drop so hard and that's the last thing he remembers. Soft, warm hands against his face and a concerned voice speaking to him. 

\-------

The first thing Dean notices when he comes to, is the smell of detergent and the feeling of soft, warm blankets against his naked torso. He groans and reaches up to rub at his eyes. His fingers feel stiff and clumsy, but at least his head isn't spinning anymore when he opens his eyes. 

He looks around.

It's still dark. He's in a bedroom. There's a duffel bag by the bed and a larger metal suitcase leaned against the wall. On the bedside table, there's an open book, a glass of water and what looks to be two aspirin. Running a hand through his hair, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the glass.

How did he get in here?

Slowly, the night's events start seeping back into his mind. How he had gotten drugged, had made his way over to Castiel's room and blacked out on his couch. Had Castiel carried him to bed?

He winces. He's still wearing his jeans and there's a stickiness between his legs. He didn't get to clean himself off. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. All his things are probably still in the other motel room. His clothes, shoes, house keys, phone, money. Fuck. 

A more pressing thought makes his heart skip a beat and he sits up too fast and gasps when the room starts to spin. The guy, his client, had been waiting outside. What if he's still there? And Castiel had asked him if he should call an ambulance. What if they are on their way right now?

Dean pushes out of the bed and ignores his still weak muscles as he shuffles out of the bedroom. There's a light on in the the combined kitchen and living area and he squints, disoriented, until he focuses on Castiel who's standing with his back to him at the counter. He's wearing the same loose grey t-shirt and shorts he bad been wearing when he had opened the door. 

Dean leans heavily against the door frame. Standing up is an effort and his heart is already racing. He must have made some sort of noise, cause Castiel turns towards him and rushes over there, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders.

"Hey, uhm...” Dean starts.

“You shouldn't be out of bed,” Castiel says and keeps a hand on his shoulder as he walks him over to the couch. He looks tired, hair a mess.

“What time is it?” Dean asks and he winces when Castiel answers, “Just past 3 AM.” 

“I'm sorry,” Dean murmurs and looks down. There's another scent in the air in here. Something sweet, like honey and apples. “Listen...”

“I didn't call an ambulance,” Castiel answers, as if he's read Dean's mind and he walks back over to the kitchen counter and brings back two mugs. “I made tea if you'd like some.” He places the mug on the small coffee table in front of Dean, grabs a blanket from the couch and hands it to him. Dean murmurs his thanks as he wraps it around himself. He didn't even realize till now that he's cold. 

There's an awkward pause where Dean isn't sure what to say. He's painfully aware that Castiel is watching him with a concerned look on his face and Dean can feel his face heat up. 

He feels out of place, in a stranger's motel room, uninvited, in the middle of the night. He should go. Give Castiel his privacy back. But he can't will himself to get up. Not right now. So he just takes the mug and wraps both hands around it. It's a little too hot and stings the palms of his hands, but he pays it no mind. 

“Thank you” he says, when Castiel takes a seat in the chair opposite him. “I wouldn't have blamed you for not wanting to open your door to a complete stranger in a motel in the middle of the damn night.” 

Castiel shakes his head and sips his own tea, does a squint when it's apparently still too hot to drink and sets it back down on the table. “You were in trouble. I'm just glad I could help. How are you feeling?”

Dean groans and leans back on the couch. “Like I've been run over by a train. I'm sorry I ruined your night.”

Castiel smiles sympathetically and picks his tea cup back up, blows on it and decides that it's cooled down enough to drink. “You didn't. And you're free to rest here until morning.”

Dean's eyebrows raise and for a moment, he's tempted, but then he frowns. “I can't. My stuff's in the other room, I need to go get it and I should go home.” And take a shower. God, he needs a shower.

“You were locked out?”

“Yeah. It's not my room.” He wonders if his things are even still there. Mr. Psycho could have gone back in and taken it all after Dean left. He feels a sting of dread at the thought that he might still be out there, waiting for him. 

Apparently, that was visible in his expression.

“I can drive you home if you'd like,” Castiel says.

Dean shakes his head and holds up his hands. “No, that's... That's fine. I'll just walk. It's not far.” Castiel has already helped him a lot. More than most people would. 

Castiel smiles again. A smile that creases the corners of his eyes. “It's quite alright. I need to go get some yoghurt, anyway. I'm sure a gas station is open somewhere around here at this time.” He finishes his tea and stands up. 

“Yoghurt? At 3 AM?”

Castiel glances at him and nods. “I wake up hungry sometimes.”

Dan huffs. Okay, so maybe this guy's just a little nuts. “Uh, alright... I guess. Thanks for the tea. I'll go get my stuff..” 

Castiel just smiles at him and Dean lingers for a moment before he pulls the blanket off and goes to the door. The sudden loss of the warmth makes him shiver. He hesitates for a moment with his hand on the door handle, but then he unlocks it and steps outside. 

He looks left and right.

The parking lot is empty. 

Castiel has appeared in the doorway behind him, now sporting longer pyjamas pants and a beige trench coat over his t-shirt. He wraps his arms around himself and leans against the door frame and Dean crosses the distance between the two motel rooms and tries the handle.

The door's locked. Of course.

He hesitates once more and glances back at Castiel in the doorway, but the other man isn't watching him. 

It's not like this matters. If the guy decides he doesn't wanna drive him home after he has very suspiciously picked a lock, then he's fine with walking. Then again, he took him in without question, drugged and half naked, and that didn't seem to put him off considerably. 

Dean thanks the gods he's at least wearing his jeans and pulls the bent metal wire out of his pocket. He wiggles it in the lock, feels for the clicks with his lip between the teeth and pushes the door open after barely half a minute. 

He finds what he expected to find. But it's still like a punch in the gut. 

All his things are there. His socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, phone. All, except for the money.

He goes through all his jacket pockets twice and then clutches it in his hands. 212 dollars. His pay for the night. Four clients. For nothing. He feels like he's gonna be sick.

“Fuck,” he growls and kicks the leg of the chair, then winces because he's still barefooted.

Castiel doesn't say anything when Dean comes back out. Maybe he can sense the dark cloud hanging over Dean's head that's making him clench his jaw and dig his nails into his palms. Castiel just walks to the car, gets in and starts the engine.

They don't talk on the short drive, except for Dean giving the directions to his house. He feels a little bad. The guy did just help him out, make him tea and then drove him home, and Dean is just sulking in the corner. But when he tries to think of something to say, nothing comes to mind. 

Once again, Castiel comes to his rescue.

“I love this time of the night,” Castiel says, as Dean directs him down the last street. The drive from the motel to his house only takes a few minutes. “When the sky is clear, the stars are so bright. There's so much to see, so much to learn. It's beautiful.” 

Dean glances at him and hums. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Dean has never really given much thought to the stars. They're always just there, looking down at him coldly. It seems lonely. 

Dean realises he must have said that out loud, when Castiel chuckles softly. “Oh, I feel quite the opposite,” he says as he parks in front of Dean's driveway. “When I look up at the stars, it always makes me feel a little less alone.” He holds Dean's gaze for a long moment and in that moment, Dean almost forgets to breathe. Then he clears his throat and snaps out of it and gestures to the driveway. 

“Well, thanks for the ride. And... everything else.” He rubs the back of his neck, averts Castiel's gaze. 

Castiel nods. “You're welcome. Take care, Dean.” 

“You, too,” he says as he gets out of the car and closes the door. He holds his hand up and does a wave as Castiel backs up and turns the car around and Dean watches his tail lights disappear around the corner. 

Guess he got a ride in that Prius after all. Just not in the way he had expected. He huffs out a smile. 

\-------

The shame hits him the next day. 

He sleeps all night and all morning until he wakes up around noon to the sound of Sam moving around in the living room. 

Dean lays still on his bed. There's a residual nausea that he can't seem to shake, even less so when unwelcome thoughts from last night sneak into his mind. 

How low he had sunk. 

Sure, okay. Doing what he does means he's pretty low already, but last night he had kicked it up a notch. He had acted completely ridiculous, grinding in that guy's lap, saying 'yes, sir' and doing everything he asked. It pisses Dean off that he had worked so hard to please a man who had ended up screwing him over. He had been careless. Naïve. Stupid. 

He was good at reading people, he was better than this. He should have known better.

He's broken out of his own self pity when his bedroom door suddenly opens and Sam peers his head in. “Oh, good. You're awake,” he says and shines Dean a smile.

Dean nods and runs his hand through his hair. He had promised to take Sam to get some of his new school books today, but now they're 212 dollars short. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sam speaks first.

“Dad came home,” he says and fiddles with a loose string on Dean's baseball glove on top of his dresser. 

“While I was asleep?” he asks, and sits up in bed. 

Sam shakes his head. “No, last night, after you left.” 

“What did he say?”

“Not much. Just asked me if I had any money. Then he handed me 200 dollars.” He smiles as he sticks his hand into his pocket and fishes out a pair of 100 dollar bills.

Dean's jaw drops. “He handed you 200 dollars?” he asks and looks between the money and Sam's face. “Why?”

Sam just shrugs, but his smile grows wider. “Who cares? Can you drive me to the book store?”

Dean nods, even as disappointment makes his nausea return at full force. “Sure. Of course,” he says, trying not to let it show in his voice.

It's a stupid thing to be upset about, and he knows he's acting like a baby. But that money should have been his to give. He should have been the one to put that smile on Sam's face. He worked so damn hard for it. It's not fair that John can just show up and steal Sam's favor when Dean is the one who busts his ass for it. 

\-------

John doesn't show up again in the next few days. At least not while Dean is around. The days are long with Sam in school and nothing to do with his time. He works at the local garage sometimes, when they're a man short, but it doesn't pay much. 

Dean finds himself increasingly thinking back to Castiel. He tries not to. But it sneaks up on him sometimes, when he's all alone in his bed at night, unable to fall asleep. 

He thinks about his voice, how deep and rough it had been, but how soft it suddenly got when he chuckled or said Dean's name. He remembers his tan skin and how the muscles had shifted in his arms when he had leaned his elbows on his knees. How his ass had looked in those loose shorts, leaving far too much to imagination. He even pretends he can remember how he had smelled when Dean had his face pressed against his chest. 

And he imagines how Castiel's hands would feel on his hips. Whether they would be gripping tight, or stroking softly. 

He huffs at himself and turns his face into his pillow. It's ridiculous. Like he's developed some kind of stupid school girl crush on the first guy who shows him a bit of genuine kindness. Castiel's probably not even in town anymore. No one in their right mind would stay in a crappy motel in a neighbourhood like this for more than a few days at a time. Dean's not going to see him again. 

In a month's time, he probably won't even remember the guy's name anymore. 

Castiel. And his 3 AM yoghurt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promised you guys a longer chapter this time, so here it is! I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Chapter warning for vomiting, but it's brief. If you're squicked out by that kind of thing, just skip the part where Dean goes into the bathroom.

Dean has rules. 

One of the first things he learned is to always take money up front. It turns a good portion of clients away, but it's necessary. 

He learned that the hard way. 

The very last time he ever trusted a client to keep his word was when he had gotten fucked in the back of a mini van for what seemed like half an hour, only to have the guy spit him in the face and refuse to pay. 

Dean had punched the asshole in the face and broken his hand, waited 4 hours in the emergency room and when he got home, John had yelled at him, told him he was irresponsible, reckless and a disappointment. That he should have been home to watch Sam and not out causing trouble. 

Yeah. Dean will never make that mistake again. 

His second rule is to always carry condoms. He has a pocket full of them, all in different sizes. He won't do anal without a condom and clients don't always carry one, so it's better to be prepared. 

Still, Dean makes an effort to get tested once a month. He doesn't trust his clients, and it's happened more than a few times that some dickface has pulled out mid-fuck only to yank the condom off and continue fucking him and Dean doesn't always notice when it happens.

Bless free STD clinics. Especially after he watched a documentary on National Geographic about how you could still get Syphilis from blowjobs. 

His last rule is that he doesn't give his phone number to anyone. 

Clients often ask. They want to be able to get in touch with him so they can meet up again. But it's too risky. He can't have clients calling him when he's home or at work or with Sam. And just the thought of John accidentally stumbling upon a text from a client makes Dean's skin crawl. 

Five days after the incident in the motel, on Thursday, Dean is out on the streets again. He had planned to go out two days in a row, but after what happened, he couldn't get himself to go the very next day. 

He needs to make back the money he lost. The gas bill is coming up at the end of this month and they already received two warnings. Dean knows for a fact that living in a house with no heat in November is not much fun. 

He can't count on John to pay, he seems to have completely forgotten about the concept of paying bills. Or maybe he just doesn't care. He's never home, anyways. 

A car pulls over and the window rolls down. 

It's a short conversation. The guy refuses to pay up front and Dean tells him 'no way', then watches as he leaves. 

He isn't worried. There's no shortage of clients here, especially not with a face like his. 

At the truck stop at the edge of town, potential clients come and go several times a minute. All Dean has to do is stand at the corner and look pretty and they practically flock him like vultures. He can afford to be picky. 

It's one of his favourite places to turn tricks. It takes a while to get here and the clients aren't always pleasant, but money is guaranteed. It's where he goes if he really needs the extra cash.

Unfortunately, he's rarely the only one. 

A young woman is eyeing him from the corner of the shop. Despite the cold, she's in fishnets, a short skirt and a crop top. And she looks pissed. When the third potential client of the night steps out of his truck and walks towards Dean, he winks at the woman and gives her a smirk. She crosses her arms and turns away from him. 

\-------

The first thing Dean does when he gets home is take a shower. He's tired, his muscles are sore and he's sticky in places he doesn't even wanna think about.  
And he has looked at so many unwashed dicks, just the thought of dinner is making him sick. 

But it was worth it. God, it was worth it.

Cause there's no less than 490 dollars tucked away in his jeans pockets right this moment. It's a new record. And it feels amazing. 

Dean turns the water off, grabs a towel and dries himself off while humming AC/DC's Thunderstruck. He hears a door slam and smiles as he glances at his jeans where the money's hidden. He can't wait to surprise Sammy. Maybe with the way things are going, he can start saving up a couple hundred each month for Sam's college tuition. Tomorrow, they can go get the rest of the books Sam needs, maybe go see a movie or something, get some pizza and ice cream. It's been way too long since they last did something fun together.

He pulls on some clean clothes and carefully pulls the dollar bills out from his jeans pockets, checking twice that he got everything before he tosses the dirty jeans in the basket. 

“Hey, Sam,” he calls as he leaves the bathroom. His hair is still dripping and there's water running down the back of his neck, soaking into his shirt, but he's too excited to care. 

“Sammy, guess what,” he says and opens the door to their shared bedroom when he doesn't get an answer.

Sam's sitting on the bed with headphones on, a book in his lap. He looks up when Dean enters and reaches up to pull the headphones down on one side. “What?” he asks, looking Dean over.

“I did really well at the bar last night,” Dean says and smiles, waving a thick bundle of cash in his hand.

Sam's face is expressionless as he glances at the money and then looks back down. “Congratulations.” 

Dean blinks, lips parting slightly and he lowers his hand. He walks over to Sam's bed and sits down on the edge. “Hey, what's wrong?” 

A muscle in Sam's jaw twitches and he pulls the headphones all the way off a little too hard. “Dad,” Sam says and averts Dean's gaze. He wraps his arms around himself. “Being a total dickhead as usual.” 

“Oh,” Dean says and glances at the doorway. “Was he here again?” 

Sam just nods. He glances at the cash in Dean's hand and after a moment, he sighs. “I don't need you to pay for me all the time, Dean. I'm not a little kid anymore.”

Dean huffs out a smirk and shrugs. “Hey, I'm your big brother. It's my job.” 

They're both silent for a few long seconds before Dean speaks again. “I figured we could hang out tomorrow. Go to the movies. There was that one movie you really wanted to see... What was it called?”

Sam bites his lip and finally meets Dean's eyes. “Uhm, Dean.. I can't. I'm hanging out with Robbie tomorrow. Sorry.” 

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Who's Robbie?”

“A friend from school.” 

“Oh. Right. Maybe next weekend, then.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, sure.”

“I'll make us some dinner,” Dean says and gets up.

“I wanna get the hell away from here and never come back,” Sam mumbles, his head leaned against the wall. Dean pauses in the doorway for a moment, before he closes the door behind him. It hurts more than it should. Guess he'll be eating pizza on his own tomorrow. 

\-------

Dean works at the garage the next day. He stays a couple extra hours, chats with the costumers and decides to organize the back room when he runs out of cars to work on. He lingers until the owner, Jack, tells him to go home so he can close up the garage. 

He thinks about maybe hitting a bar. Going home to an empty house isn't that appealing. But he decides against the bar when it starts to rain.

Eating alone turns out to not be so bad, apart from the fact that he's bored out of his mind and the house is way too quiet. But it's much to be preferred over what happens next. 

He opted out of ordering an entire pizza just for himself and made some sandwiches instead. He's on the couch, watching tv and he's just about to take the first bite of his second ham sandwich when he hears voices outside and the door opens a few seconds later. 

Dean turns around in his seat. “Dad. Hey.” Finally seems like the two of them are home at the same time. 

John looks up and meets his eyes and nods at him. “Hey, son.” He doesn't seem drunk and Dean allows himself to hope that he might get a nice evening after all for all of three seconds, until more people walk in after John. 

Two men step inside. One is a scrawny old guy in a pair of holed jeans and a baseball cap. The other is...

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue when he locks eyes with the second guy. 

It's him. The shithead from the motel who drugged him. And if the expression on his face is anything to go by, he's just as surprised to see Dean. That is, until that expression turns into a smirk that sends a shiver down Dean's spine.  
He's frozen. Doesn't even breathe as he stares at the guy. 

No. He can't be here. He can't. Now he knows where Dean lives. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Patrick. Frank. This is my son, Dean,” John says, seemingly oblivious to the pure terror that must be visible on Dean's face.

Dean finally snaps out of it when John comes over and taps Dean on the shoulder. “Why don't you go get us some beers,” John says and waves him off. 

Dean gets up. His legs feel like jelly. He crosses over to the kitchen and opens the fridge with a shaking hand. He tries to keep the bottles from clinking as he takes them back and puts them on the table. 

The asshole leans forward and extends his hand to Dean and Dean stares at it for a moment. “I'm Patrick. I don't believe we've met,” he says and there's an amused look in his eyes. Dean stares him down. 

“Come on, Dean. Shake the man's hand. You weren't raised in a barn, were you?” John's voice cuts through the silence, and Dean swallows before he reaches out and shakes Patrick's hand. 

“Patrick owns a business in Illinois,” John says as they all sit down on the couch. Dean hovers, not wanting to sit down because the only empty seat is next to Patrick. He's just waiting for the moment to make an excuse to leave the house. 

“He's looking to expand and invest. Which I think is a great idea... Dean, sit down. Do I have to tell you everything?” John gestures to the couch and looks at Dean like he's testing his patience. 

Dean swallows. He wants to bail. But he doesn't. 

He sits down on the couch next to Patrick, almost halfway on top of the armrest, but their elbows still brush. Patrick turns his head and smiles at him pleasantly.

Dean doesn't listen to most of the conversation. He's way to focused on his racing heart and sweaty palms. The nausea that's burning in his throat from the fear that's clawing at his insides. Any moment, Patrick can spill his secret. 

“Excuse me,” Dean mumbles when there's a break in the conversation and stands up. He crosses the living room on shaking legs, into the narrow hallway and then the bathroom. He barely manages to close the door behind himself before he falls to his knees in front of the toilet and his cramping stomach painfully forces the ham sandwiches back up. 

He retches and spits, arms shaking where they're hugging the toilet bowl. With a groan, he leans back against the wall. Fuck. He's dead. Any second now, Patrick will reveal that he picked Dean up at the side of the road and fucked him in the Reynolds motel for money. 

And John will beat Dean black and blue for it.

His oldest son. A whore. 

It'll be a miracle if he doesn't kill him. 

Either way, Dean will have to start looking for a bridge to sleep under, cause there's no way John will ever let him back inside the house. 

He stays where he is until his heart starts to slow and his hands stop shaking and then he pushes himself up, flushes the toilet and rinses his mouth at the sink. 

He braces himself with his hand on the bathroom door handle and then steps outside, putting on his game face. All he has to do is make up an excuse to leave. 

But when he steps out of the bathroom, his dad and Frank are gone. Patrick is leaning casually against the kitchen counter and his gaze falls on Dean the moment he steps out of the bathroom. He freezes.

“Where's my dad?” he asks, muscles tensing. 

“Oh, him and Frank are getting something in the car. They'll be right back.” 

Dean swallows and looks away, makes to head for the front door to grab his jacket and leave, but only makes it halfway through the kitchen before Patrick steps in front of him and blocks the way with his body, a hand on the wall. 

“So, Dean...” He says, tasting the name for the first time. “You left before I could get a chance to talk to you,” he says, voice soft and innocent. 

Dean clenches his jaw, his heart is starting to race again, but it's a different feeling this time. “You mean before you had a chance to date rape me?” He bites back.

Patrick chuckles. “Oh, now, that's harsh. I just wanted to have some fun.” 

Dean huffs, voice bitter. “Yeah. Fun. Being drugged and stalked is so much fun.”

When Dean tries to push past Patrick once more, the man's expression hardens. “Who do you think you are, boy? You seemed to enjoy yourself plenty last week. Writhing and moaning like a slut. 'Fuck me harder. Fuck me, please' You're nothing but a-”

Dean shoves Patrick hard in the chest so he stumbles backwards and hits the counter. Bowls and bottles are knocked onto the floor and shatter and before Patrick can right himself, Dean is standing over him with a raised fist.

His knuckles make contact with Patrick's jaw with a sickly crack and pain shoots all the way up Dean's arm, but he ignores it as he raises his arm again. 

How dare he. How dare he come here and invade his home and act like it's all a game. Sam lives here, for fuck's sake. 

“Dean!” John's voice, furious, breaks him out of his blind rage. Dean is panting, his knuckles are bloody and so is Patrick's face. And the kitchen cabinets. He's not sure how many times he has hit him, but it must be at least three or four times. 

“What in God's name do you think you're doing?!” John is crossing the living room, barrelling towards him like an angry bear. But Dean has always been faster than him and he ducks out of the way, runs to the front door and out onto the street.

He runs. Runs until his lungs are burning. And then he keeps walking. 

He doesn't pay attention to where he's going. He just keeps walking until he suddenly finds himself in front of the local diner. It's a small place with a neon sign and a mostly empty parking lot.

He walks towards it. A puddle reminds him that he's not wearing shoes and he curses and steps to the side and almost bumps into the car that has pulled up next to him. 

“What the fuck?! Look where you're going!” he snaps as the driver leans over and rolls the window down.

“You sellin'?” The guy asks and looks him up and down.

Dean stares at him for a moment, lips parted. “What? Fuck. No, piss off,” he snarls and steps around the car. The driver murmurs something at him that he doesn't catch. He's not in the mood for anymore crap tonight. At all. 

Walking up to the front door of the diner, he pauses with his hand on the door handle. He left his money at home. All he has on him is his phone. He sighs, hand sliding off the door. He can't even buy himself a god damn coffee. 

He doesn't know where else to go, so he sits down on the curb with his back against the façade. 

His feet are cold. 

He lifts his right hand, uncurls his fingers and then clenches his hand. A sharp pain shoots up his arm and he groans. The knuckles are bruised and bloodied and one of them looks swollen. Fuck it, he can't afford a medical bill. It'll just have to heal on it's own. 

The diner doorbell rings and someone steps outside. They stop next to him. Dean can see a pair of black men's shoes out of the corner of his eye. He sighs before he lifts his head.  
“Look, buddy. I'm not sucking any dicks tonight, so...” He pauses when his eyes meet blue ones and his heart skips a beat.

“Good to know,” Castiel says and gives him a faint smile. 

Dean feels his face heat up and he's thankful for the dim lighting in the parking lot. “Uhm... Hey.” 

“I thought it was you I saw,” Castiel says and sits down next to him on the curb. “What are you doing out here?”

Dean shakes his head and shrugs. “I, uh... Just, you know...” 

“Having a bad night?” Castiel asks and nods at Dean's bruised and bloodied hand. 

“Understatement,” Dean murmurs and looks down at a piece of gum that's stuck to the concrete. 

They're both quiet for a while.

“Do you have something against shoes?”

“Huh?” Dean looks up to see Castiel smiling at him again. 

“This is the second time we've met where you aren't wearing any shoes,” Castiel explains and points to Dean's feet.

Dean manages to huff out a smile. “Yeah, you know. Shoes are awful. I hate shoes.”

“I can tell. Why don't you come inside?” Castiel points with his thumb at the diner behind them. 

“I didn't bring any money. The owner gets a little pissy if you stick around without buying something.”

Castiel hums, stands up and reaches down to take Dean's hand and help him up. “I'll buy.” 

Dean takes his hand but he shakes his head. “No, I can't do that... You've helped me out so much already. I can't take your money.”

Castiel just shakes his head too, and holds onto Dean's hand, tugging him towards the diner. “You're not. They are.”

“That's not what I.. Yeah, okay. Fine.” 

They sit down together at a table in the back where Castiel left his half-finished burger. He asks Dean what he wants to eat and when he once again insists that he doesn't need anything, Castiel decides to simply order a burger for him. 

“You shouldn't have done that. I can't pay you back. At least not this week, I...”

Castiel reaches across the table and puts his hand over Dean's and Dean freezes. He didn't notice before in the parking lot, but Castiel's hands are surprisingly soft.

“Dean. You don't have to pay me back.”

“Yeah, I do. I can't stand owing people.” It comes out a little too hard, considering Castiel has been nothing but kind to him. 

Castiel lets go of his hand and takes a drink of his coffee. “Fine. Then... repay me with your company while we eat.” 

Dean frowns. “What?”

“I'm here in town all alone. It gets boring with nobody to talk to 24/7.”

Dean huffs and smiles. “Yeah, I bet. Fair enough.” It doesn't feel like adequate payment. Not really. But if the guy wants someone to talk to while he eats his burger, then he'll take it. It's definitely a whole lot better than being at home. 

“So... what are you doing here?” Dean asks as his food arrives. The waitress puts a big, juicy burger in front of him and Dean can't help how his mouth waters. He's suddenly aware of how painfully empty his stomach is after he threw his ham sandwiches back up. He takes a deep breath and inhales the smell of the meat before he digs in. 

“I'm on vacation,” Castiel replies.

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Vacation? In this place?”

Castiel chuckles around a mouthful of burger. “Yes. I'm here to see the meteor shower. And the occultation of Regulus.” 

Dean pauses with his mouth full of burger bun. “The what?”

“It's an extremely rare phenomenon. The asteroid 163 Erigone will pass in front of the star Regulus, rendering it invisible for a total of 12 seconds. It can only be viewed from this location.”

Dean stares at him, not sure if he's meant to be impressed. “Sounds thrilling,” Dean says, deadpan. 

But Castiel doesn't seem to notice his tone and nods eagerly. “It is!”

“So, what, are you an astronomer or something?”

Castiel laughs and the sound sends a pleasant ripple through Dean's body. “No, I wish. I work in an office. If I could spend all day looking at the stars, trust me, I would.” 

“So why don't you?”

Castiel's smile lessens a little and he looks down into his cup of coffee. “It's complicated.”

“Yeah, I know complicated,” Dean says and nods slowly. 

The rest of their meal is had in a pleasant silence. Dean steals glances at Castiel now and then. Speculates. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. He's not wearing a wedding ring. He doesn't look very old, but closer to 30 than 20. 

Dean finishes his burger at the same time as Castiel finishes his, despite how Castiel had already been halfway through his when Dean's was served.

“Someone was hungry,” Castiel notes which triggers another blush from Dean who mumbles something under his breath.

It isn't till they leave the diner together that Dean realises how nice it was to hang out with Castiel and how little he wants it to end. He hasn't had a casual friendly conversation with anyone but Sam in weeks. It was like he could forget all the shit for a little bit. Take a deep breath of fresh air. Forget the fact that he beat a guy in who's probably already spilled all his secrets to his dad, which means Dean no longer has a place to live. 

It isn't till Castiel pauses at his car and looks at him questionably that Dean notices he's followed him across the parking lot and is now awkwardly hovering at his side. 

Castiel glances down at Dean's hand. “I have some bandages back at my hotel room. And some ice for the swelling,” he suggests, one hand on the car door. 

Dean opens his mouth to protest again, but nothing comes out. He doesn't want to say no. He wants to sit in Castiel's Prius with seat heat and drink his stupid herbal tea and listen to him talk about the stars. 

“Sounds good,” Dean says and copies the smile that spreads on Castiel's face. 

“Get in.”

They talk on the way back to the motel. Mostly just pleasant small talk, nothing personal. Like how terrible the food is at that café down on the corner, how much mileage the Prius has and how Castiel thinks it's the best car anyone could ever have. Dean calls it a 'grandpa car' and Castiel laughs. It stirs a strange sense of pride in him that he can put that kind of smile on Castiel's face when they barely know each other. 

It's a little strange to be back in Castiel's motel room. The last time he was here, he was drugged and half naked. But Castiel doesn't seem to be bothered by it. He offers Dean a seat on the couch and goes off to find bandages in the bathroom and ice in the mini freezer. 

While Castiel is gone, Dean looks around. There's not much to look at, but the big suitcase that had been in the bedroom before is now in the living room and it's open. Dean leans forward a little and looks inside. It looks like a lens of some kind. A telescope, maybe. 

Castiel returns and puts the bandages and a bag of crushed ice cubes on the table before he sits down next to Dean. 

“How long are you sticking around? When is that disappearing star thing happening?” 

“The occultation is on the 6th of December. About a month and one week from now. The meteor shower is in a few days.” He reaches for Dean's hand and he holds it with both of his own, gently feeling around his knuckles and bones with his thumbs. 

Dean tries not to listen too much to the little voice of happiness in his head. A month and one week. That's a long time. Maybe they could hang out again. Talk. Drink bland coffee. 

“It doesn't feel broken,” Castiel says after he's done examining Dean's hand. “And you can move all your fingers right?”

Dean nods and wiggles his fingers a little. It hurts, but they work. 

“Then it's probably just a sprain.”

He reaches for the ice cube pack, wraps a dish cloth around it and hands it to Dean. “Although I wouldn't recommend you go punch someone again any time soon.”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “I'll try not to.” 

The ice is soothing, cooling his hand that feels too hot, skin too tight. None of them say anything for a few seconds, so Dean glances back at the telescope. “How good is that thing?” he asks curiously. “I've never tried one before.”

“It's good,” Castiel says and gets up from the couch. Dean watches him as he disappears into the bedroom and comes back with what looks like a small book. “You can see everything so much clearer. Stars, planets, everything.” He hands him the book and Dean rests it on his lap, flipping it open with one hand. On the first page is a photo of the moon, large and perfectly round, filling up the whole frame. It's so detailed, Dean can see all the edges of the craters on it's surface. 

He flips the page and sees what looks almost like watercolor painted across the night sky. He runs his fingertips over it carefully, until something suddenly dawns on him and he looks up. “You took these?”

Castiel nods and Dean can see pride in his eyes. “I did. My telescope isn't the best and neither is my camera. The photos aren't great quality, but-”

“Dude, these are great!” Dean interrupts and quickly flips through the rest of the small photo book. The look of joy in Castiel's eyes makes Dean's belly do a flip, especially because he's the one who caused it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a few days longer than usual to get out! I've been working hard on DCBB artwork, but I'm less busy now. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy :)

They spend the rest of the night together. Castiel doesn't ask how Dean hurt his hand, and Dean doesn't tell. He just thanks Castiel when he bandages his hand, and then re-bandages it twice, because he doesn't want it to be too tight, even though Dean says it feels fine. 

Castiel makes them both tea and then they watch some documentary on television about the Roman Empire. It's not really interesting enough to hold Dean's attention, and so his mind starts to drift. At first, to Castiel. They're sitting close, their knees brushing every once in a while. Castiel has dressed down to just a t-shirt and Dean wonders if he works out. He wouldn't be surprised. He smells nice, too. Like cinnamon and honey and a hint of aftershave. 

But then more unpleasant thoughts intrude. Patrick was in his house. He knows his dad, even though calling them friends is probably a bit far fetched. But he knows where Dean lives. Knows his secret. What is he gonna do? Blackmail him? He doubts Patrick is interested in the 50 bucks he makes per blowjob. 

But what if he's gonna carry out the plan that failed last time? What if he's gonna kidnap him? Do all sorts of psycho things to him? Come to his house in the middle of the night and...

“Dean?” Castiel's voice cuts through the panic steadily rising inside him and he blinks, suddenly realising how tightly he's clutching his knees, nails digging painfully into his skin. 

He gasps and lets go, rubs his injured knuckles. “I'm sorry,” are the first words out of his mouth, and when he glances at Castiel, the confusion is clear in his expression. 

“Sorry for what? Where did you go?” Castiel asks and takes Dean's hand in an attempt to stop him from mindlessly rubbing at his knuckles. Dean relaxes his hands and Castiel let's him go.

He doesn't wanna tell Castiel about Patrick. They're forming something. A friendship. However temporary it is, he doesn't wanna do or say anything that might put that at risk. He already pushed his luck by showing up drugged on Castiel's doorstep. The least he can do now is act like a normal person. 

“Nothing, just... I've got a lot on my mind,” he says and tries a casual smile. 

Castiel seems to accept his explanation, even if he studies Dean's face for a few more seconds. “Well, you're welcome to crash on my couch if you wanna ignore your problems for a little while longer,” Castiel says with a soft smile and takes Dean's empty cup of tea back to the kitchen.

Dean smiles and he's just about to accept the offer, before his breath suddenly gets stuck in his throat. Sam isn't spending the night at Robbie's. What if he comes home and Patrick is still there? 

He stands up quickly, so quickly that Castiel turns around and stares at him. “I can't. I'm sorry. I really need to get home,” he says, and Castiel must have noticed the urgency in his voice, cause he doesn't ask, just nods. 

“Let me drive you,” Castiel says, and even though Dean probably shouldn't add even more favors to the list of what he owes Castiel, the quicker he can get home, the better. That, and he's still not wearing any shoes. 

They're quiet on the drive back to Dean's house, and being left to his thoughts is really not what he needs right now. He's itching for something to distract him, and the idea comes to him when he glances at the dashboard. 

“You know, I could help you figure out that GPS of yours,” Dean says, and pushes away his sense of dread to allow himself, for just a short moment, to be proud of how smooth that was. Plus, he'll get to at least pay one of Castiel's favors back. 

“Really? I'd love that,” Castiel says as he takes the turn down Dean's street. “Why don't you call me when you're free? Then you can stop by.” He parks in front of Dean's house and Dean fishes out his phone from his pocket and hands it to Castiel. He focuses on his feeling of victory as Castiel saves his number onto his phone, instead of on the looming, dark house behind him. 

…

When he steps inside, the house is quiet and the lights are turned off. The only light in the small living room is coming from the tv, but the audio is so low, Dean can't hear what's on. He shrugs off his jacket as quickly and silently as possible and does his best to tiptoe through the living room. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” John's voice is loud in the silence and Dean almost jumps and stops in the middle of the living room. John is sitting on the couch in front of the TV. He's clutching a beer in his hand and there are several empty bottles on the floor next to the couch and two more on the table. The whole house stinks of alcohol. Dean's heart drops. This is it. How much does John know? 

“Is Sam home?” he tries as neutrally as possible. 

“Are you fucking deaf, too?” John slurs, as he turns around in the couch and glares at Dean. “Where the fuck were you, boy?” He stares him down accusingly, and Dean averts his gaze. 

“I was at a friend's,” he says and clenches his jaw. He's eager to get to his room and close the door, but for now he doesn't move. 

John takes a drink from the bottle and puts it down hard on the table, so hard it's a wonder it doesn't shatter. Then he stands up, movements slow and wobbly, and leans against the side of the couch. 

Here it comes. 

“You just cost me a fortune, you know that?” John continues. “Patrick gave me money, money that I gave your ungrateful ass. He promised me a job, a share in his business. We could have been _rich_ , Dean. You could have gotten new shoes, a car... A thousand hookers, I don't care. Sam could have gone to Harvard. But you fucked it up.” 

“It's Stanford,” Dean mumbles, and he's still looking down, but equal parts relief and bitterness is replacing his fear. Patrick isn't here. For some reason, he didn't tell John about him. And whatever John decides to throw at him now, can't be worse than what he's already gotten. 

“I don't give a shit,” John yells, and Dean looks back up and meets his eyes. “You took off. I was here. I took care of Sam. You didn't do that, Dean. That was your job. Now Patrick is going back to Illinois tomorrow, and we're losing a great chance thanks to you. I work so hard and you just fuck it up. What an amazing son I have.” 

“You don't do shit,” Dean says quietly, voice tense, with a spark of reckless rebellion. 

A few seconds pass where they just stare at each other. Dean can see the anger building up inside John, like a compressed spring. Suddenly it's released, and Dean turns and runs. He can hear John's heavy footsteps right behind him, body slamming into kitchen counters, tables and full baskets of laundry. 

Dean reaches the bedroom door, rips it open and slams it shut and then leans his back against it, heart racing. John pounds on it, yells a few curses and then gives up. Dean stays where he is a for a moment longer and then exhales, slumping against the door. In a few minutes, John will have forgotten why he's even mad. He'll take a new beer from the fridge and sit back down in front of the tv.

The light turns on in the bedroom and Dean turns around to see Sam looking at him. He's clearly wide awake, woken by John's yelling. Or maybe he hasn't slept at all. When Sam was younger, he couldn't fall sleep unless Dean was there with him. It makes him feel a little guilty that he stayed out so late. 

“Is everything okay?” Sam asks and glances at the door when Dean walks over to sit down on his own bed. 

“Yeah, everything's fine, Sammy,” he says and he smiles over at him. Actually, things are lot better than he could have hoped for. If John is telling the truth, and Dean has a feeling that he is, then Patrick is gone by tomorrow. He'll be several states away, very far from him and his family. It feels like an uncomfortable pressure is lifted off his chest and he takes a deep breath. “Did you have fun at Robbie's?” 

Sam nods and smiles back, but then it fades a little and he bites his bottom lip, hesitant. “We went to the movies,” he says slowly and looks down. 

“Oh...” Dean can't help but feel a little sting of jealousy. He had wanted to go to the movies with Sam. But then he pushes that thought away. Sam's almost 17 and Dean's glad he's made friends of his own. 

“That's great. Was it good?” he asks as he pulls his shirt over his head and strips out of his jeans, pulling on pyjamas pants and an old and worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt instead. He shivers in the cold as he climbs into bed. They keep the heat on low to keep the bills as cheap as possible. 

Sam looks relieved. “Yeah, it was great. Just as good as the first one. We'll watch it together when they release the dvd, right?”

Dean laughs. “Hell, yeah.”

“So where did you go? You weren't here when I came home.”

The feeling of excitement returns and he smiles as he rests his hand under his head on the pillow, facing Sam. “I was at a friend's, too,” he says and Sam copies his smile.

“Really? That's great, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean tries not to let it get to him that Sam has clearly noticed that Dean doesn't really have many friends. But he doesn't mention it, and Dean's thankful for that. 

“Get some sleep, Cinderella. Tomorrow's a school day,” Dean says and Sam rolls his eyes at him, but he reaches up and turns the light out. 

“Night, Dean.”

“Night, Sammy.” 

He waits for Sam to turn over in bed, then reaches for his phone on the night stand. He opens his contacts. He has exactly 6 contacts now. Dad, Sam, Ellen, Jo, Bobby... and Castiel, at the very top of the list. He tries to ignore how excitement bubbles up inside him when he clicks Castiel's contact to send a text. 

_Hey Cas. This is Dean. Here's my number._

He hovers with his finger over the 'send' button. It's a pretty stupid text. Castiel will get his number once he calls him about the GPS. It's not really necessary. But he clicks anyway. 

He stares at his phone for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Long enough for him to start regretting it. It was a pretty stupid text. And it's late. Past 11. He's probably already asleep by now. 

He's just about to put his phone back on the night stand when it vibrates against his palm. 

_Thank you. Goodnight, Dean! :-)_

Dean huffs out a chuckle. The guy really needs to update his smileys. He texts back a goodnight before turning off his phone, and he shakes his head at himself and tucks the blanket up to his chin.

Him and Cas are just friends. He shouldn't be acting all giddy over a single text. He doesn't have a crush on him, he tells himself, as he falls asleep to the thought of Castiel's voice, the softness of his hands when he bandaged his bruised knuckles. 

\-------

Everything gets a little easier after his night with Cas. 

He works at the garage the next day and there's no shortage of work. He's constantly busy, greets new costumers with a smile and builds up a layer of sweat and grease on his hands, but he likes it that way. He can lose himself in his work as he hums along to the radio that blasts out Seven Nation Army over the noise of air compressors and drills. 

Cars aren't like clients. Cars are easy. There's a problem and a solution and he can either fix it or he can't. No bullshit. 

It's when he carries old tires out back that he stops to take a look at the old '67 Impala that's parked on the grass behind the shop, hidden away. 

It's been there since Dean started working here. It's broken and battered, missing a door and the undercarriage is more rust than metal. 

Jack, the owner, had it delivered for free after the previous owner had drunk driven, run over a young woman and then launched it into a ditch. Jack had originally wanted to cut it up for the parts, but found they weren't worth much in their state. It's really just waiting to get scrapped now, Jack just keeps putting it off. 

It's a shame, cause it's a beautiful car. Or it would be, if it was fixed up. Dean thinks it deserves a second chance. It's not the car's fault that the guy driving it was an asshole. But Jack keeps saying it's not worth it. Nobody wants to buy a car like that nowadays. It's a monster to drive and it swallows gas like crazy. 

He gets off work at 1 PM because Jack has to go to his son's baseball game and is closing the garage early. His phone vibrates in his pocket as he's walking back home and he pulls it out to see a new text from Castiel. He can't ignore the little jolt of happiness he feels as he opens the message. He had expected Cas to ask him about the GPS, but it's something better.

_I think my waiter might be wearing a thong, he keeps shifting awkwardly when he has to refill my coffee._

Dean snorts out a laughter and texts him back. 

_Maybe you're turning him on and he's trying to hide his raging hard on._

It's a daring text, but Dean thankfully doesn't get any time to regret it before the next text ticks in.

_How flattering._

Dean smiles at his phone.

\-------

That night, Dean jerks off in the shower to the thought of Cas. 

It's not something he does often, these days. He gets fed up with sex, and he's almost always too tired. 

He's used to taking care of himself after a good fuck where a client nails him just right, but doesn't care to finish him off. But this is different. 

He does this because he wants to. Because it feels fucking amazing. Because he simply can't help but think about that rough voice and the dark ruffled hair, those curious blue eyes. 

He leans against the bathroom wall, the hot water streaming down his chest as he strokes himself slowly, eyes closed, cock hard and heavy in his hand. 

He runs his fingers over his own chest, pretends it's Castiel touching him. Imagines what he would look like naked, water running down the contours of his body. A moan escapes him and he spreads his legs and speeds up the rhythm of his hand. Maybe Cas would suck him off. Those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, hands squeezing his ass. 

“Fuck...” He gasps, hips stuttering as he comes, thick pearly liquid running down the back of his hand, quickly washed away by the water. He jerks himself a few more times until he's too sensitive and sags against the wall, muscles soft and trembling. 

He hasn't had his dick sucked since he hooked up with a kid from school when he was 17. Maybe it's surprising, considering how much sex he has, but his job is to serve, not to be served. 

He feels a little guilty, thinking about Cas that way when they're just friends and they only just met. He doesn't even know if Cas is into guys. 

But hey, he's allowed to dream. 

\-------

On Sunday, Sam and him are both home and after eating breakfast, and in Sam's case – finishing homework – they have the rest of the day to themselves. 

They watch a dvd, go down to the park and buy ice cream, despite how it's too cold to eat ice cream in November. Dean steals some kid's skateboard who's unlucky enough to leave it out of his sight a little too long and then they run down to the empty parking lot to try their hand at skateboarding. 

It results in a lot of laughing and scraped knees, and it's the most fun Dean has had in a long time.

They feel like real brothers again, and he realises how much he missed that. 

\-------

Monday finds Dean on the streets again. He's out earlier than usual, just after dinner and before the sun goes down, cause Sam's studying at a friend's house and Dean didn't feel like sitting around at home, watching repeats of the various crime shows on tv. 

He walks along the main road towards the edge of town. He thinks about going to the truck stop, but decides against it. He managed to pay most of their bills earlier today and things are looking alright, so there's not really any need for him to head for the least washed dicks in town. 

He'd probably find more clients closer to the centre of the town or at the bars, but he doesn't dare go there. His dad hangs out at various bars on most nights and it's simply too risky, just like he doesn't wanna get recognized by any of the regulars at the garage. So far, he's done pretty alright. And they usually end up moving to a different town before he can become too much of a familiar face with the locals. 

A black car drives past him slowly and then stops. Taking a deep breath, he walks a little faster to catch up to it and leans against the passenger side door where the driver has rolled down the window. 

“Can I help you?” Dean asks and licks his lips, looking the man up and down. 

“You definitely can,” the driver says and eyes Dean. “Get in.”

Dean opens the car door and gets inside. He doesn't bother with the seat belt, cause he won't need it.

“What do you want? Payments are up front,” Dean says and looks the guy over a second time. He's maybe in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes and a trimmed beard. 

“How much for a ride?” he asks without looking at Dean and pats his lap with one hand as he steers back out onto the road. 

“Seventy-five,” Dean says with confidence and then holds his breath. It's a little higher than what he usually charges, but tonight, he can afford to gamble. 

A few seconds pass and then the guy nods. He turns right onto a small parking area next to the main road, then stops the car and unbuckles his seat belt. 

Dean's brow furrows and he looks around. “Here?” he asks, voice betraying a bit of insecurity. It's right next to the road, in full view of whoever should drive by slowly enough to get a good look. 

“Yeah, here. I don't have all night, come on,” he guy says, and he's already unbuckling his belt, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down. 

Sure, okay. If he doesn't mind spectators, Dean supposes he can roll with that. 

“Money first,” Dean reminds him and stays where he is, eyeing him cautiously. 

The guy sighs deeply and reaches for the glove compartment, pulls out his wallet and quickly counts seventy-five dollars that he hands to Dean. 

Sticking the money in his pocket, Dean quickly opens the door and steps out of the car, letting the man slide over into the passenger seat. Dean strips out of his jeans and boxers and dumps it on the front seat. Next to him, the client pushes his seat back and rips open a condom and Dean's just about to get in when he pauses. The guy is already hard, and at the tip of his dick is the biggest piercing Dean has ever seen. 

“Nice Prince Albert,” Dean notes as he works to climb into the guy's lap. It's not a small car, but then again, neither of them are small people, so it's a bit of a tight fit. “It's not gonna be a problem, is it?” he asks, eyeing the condom as he slides it on.

“Hell no, I've done this a million times,” the client answers and suddenly Dean's pulled forward by the hips. He'd have preferred to do this with a bit more lube, but he'll just have to settle for what's already on the condom. 

He fingered himself before he left, but it's still a feeling he isn't prepared for. The ring is large and feels weird, bordering on uncomfortable as it slides inside. But Dean doesn't give himself time to adjust. The sooner he can get into a good rhythm, the easier it'll get and the sooner it'll be over. So he puts his game face on and arches his back, bounces in the guy's lap while thinking about the seventy-five dollars in his pocket. 

After maybe half a minute, the discomfort subsides and he barely registers it when the client grabs his hips and pushes up on every thrust. There's a certain level of pleasure, Dean has to admit there's something appealing about a dick piercing, especially when it drags over his prostate just right. The tight space and awkward position prevents him from really enjoying this though, but his client seems content, at least judging by the tight grip he has on Dean's hips and the groans that escape him every now and then. And that's really all that matters. 

Dean's ripped out of his head-space by a sudden, loud knock on the window and a bright light flashing in his eyes. A man's voice can be heard from the other side of the closed car window. “This is the police, please roll down the window.”

Dean's blood turns to ice. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck...” He pushes off the man's lap, bumps his knees and elbows on the interior and the steering wheel as he throws himself into the driver's seat, yanks on his boxers and grabs his jeans and then darts out of the car. 

He hears yelling, the policeman telling him to stop. 

For a terrifying moment, Dean thinks he's about to get shot, but then he jumps the rail and runs in between the bushes and sprints away from the road as fast as he can. 

After a few minutes, he stops, heaving in heavy breaths. He rests his hands on his knees. It doesn't sound like he was followed and he can't hear police sirens. 

Blowing out a breath, he stands up and a laugh bubbles out of his throat. He laughs until he's ridden himself of all his nervous energy and his belly starts aching, and then he pulls his jeans back on.

He sticks his hand in his pocket to make sure the seventy-five bucks are still there. 

They are. Damn sweet. 

So long as he doesn't run in that guy again, in case he demands his money back for an unfinished job. 

Still, that dick piercing was pretty nice.


	5. Chapter 5

It's getting dark, and the street lights ignite one after the other down the street as far as the eye can see. Dean walks back up towards the main road when it starts to rain. It's only a drizzle, but it's enough to be cold and annoying, so he decides to call it a day and head back home. Only, when he reaches the intersection, he stops. 

There's a police car parked by the curb on the opposite street, the street Dean's house is on. He bites his bottom lip and looks around. It could be the same police car, especially considering this is pretty fucking far out in nowhere and the police doesn't patrol here that often. He can't sneak around the back, the car has clear view of both directions. 

What if he's recognized? No, he just can't risk it. 

With a sigh, he turns around and heads back towards the convenience store parking lot. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, an idea comes to him and he flicks through his contacts and lingers at Castiel's number for a moment before he dials, little tiny drops of rain distorting the display. 

It rings five times before he picks up. 

_“Yes?”_

“Hey, Cas. It's Dean.” 

Castiel's voice turns considerably softer Dean can hear he's smiling when he speaks again. _“Oh, Dean! Hello.”_

“I was thinking... are you busy tonight?” 

_“Only if you consider baking chocolate chip muffins busy,”_ Castiel answers and Dean can hear the sound of objects being moved around. 

“You're baking chocolate chip muffins?” Dean asks and lowers his phone to take a quick look at the time. “At 8 in the evening?”

_“Yes. Motel life is surprisingly uneventful. Care to stop by and be my guinea pig? Consider your answer because I can't speak for the quality of these muffins.”_

Dean laughs and kicks a pebble into a gutter. When he looks back up, he realises he's already making his way towards the Reynold's motel. Well, guess that's decided then. “Sure. I'll be there in a minute.”

_“Excellent.”_

There's a moment's pause, then... 

_“Dean?”_

“Yes?” He's not sure why he's suddenly holding his breath.

_“Put some shoes on,”_ Castiel says and Dean breathes out and shakes his head. 

“Shut up.”

Castiel laughs softly and it transforms into a warm feeling that settles pleasantly in Dean's gut.

\-------

As it turns out, Castiel is no master baker. He's not even a decent baker. When Dean enters the motel room, the whole room smells of burned muffin dough and the first thing Dean does is open all the windows while his eyes water and he coughs into his sleeve. 

Once he's gotten off his shoes and jacket, Castiel presents him with his first batch of muffins that are all sad, half-burned, half-melted, shrivelled looking things. The second batch is better, although still a little soggy, so a few of the muffins have melted apart and are sticking to the muffin tray. 

“You're not making them firm enough,” Dean says as he rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. “You don't want the batter to be liquid when you pour it in the forms.” 

Castiel looks at him with a curious expression and Dean raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” he asks.

Castiel smiles. “I just didn't know I was dealing with an expert, here,” he says and Dean turns his face away when he feels it turn a deep red color.

“So you're one of those weirdos that get up to bake shit in the middle of the night, huh?” Dean asks as he gets an overview of the kitchen supplies and starts to stir butter and sugar in a bowl with a whisk. 

“Not usually,” Castiel admits. He's been reduced to a spectator, but Dean's making sure he's paying attention. “The days are just starting to get a little long, that's all. And I'm staying here another four weeks.” He sounds like he's starting to regret his decision to stick around.

Dean laughs as he adds the eggs and stirs again. “Could have told you that. This is a crap place to go on vacation in,” he says, even as he wishes Cas won't decide to simply leave early. 

Castiel hums and rubs the back of his neck, his worn t-shirt riding up a little, exposing a line of tummy that Dean definitely doesn't glance at. “I don't know, I think it's nice. I needed a break, I guess. After a couple years, sitting in an office sort of stops being exciting.”

Dean huffs and glances over at Cas before looking back at the bowl. “No shit,” he says. “Where are you from?”

“California. I work a 9-5 job as an accountant in my brother's firm.” 

“That definitely sounds thrilling,” Dean says sarcastically as he adds in the chocolate and stirs just enough to mix it without the batter getting heavy. “Aren't you a little too young to be sitting with your nose in a calculator all day long?”

Castiel laughs and looks down and Dean doesn't dare steal a glance to see if that's a blush on Castiel's cheeks. “If you consider 26 young,” he says and Dean finally looks up at him. 

“You're 26?” Looks like his initial guess had been right. 

Castiel nods. “And you? Do you study? How old are you, 18?”

Dean's hands pause where he's carefully pouring the thick, fluffy muffin batter into the forms and he shoots Cas a crooked smile. Might as well be honest. To a point, at least. He still has no idea if Cas has figured out he's a hooker or if he's just unusually dense. “20. My birthday's in two months.” He shakes his head. “Dropped out of my last year of high school to work instead. I need to take care of my brother.”

Castiel's eyebrows raise and Dean can feel more questions coming. He's not sure how the conversation turned to Dean's living conditions, and he's not sure he likes it. 

“What about your parents? Isn't it their job to care for you and your brother?” he asks, and Dean can tell he's choosing his words carefully. He shrugs casually. “My mom's dead and my dad, he's... Not around so much.” 

Castiel nods slowly, pursing his lips. “I understand. That's not quite fair for you though, is it?”

Dean shrugs again and finishes pouring the batter, and he's left fiddling with the edges of the form. “I don't know, someone has to. And I'm used to it. Besides, my brother's the smart one. It's more important that he gets to go to school. He's 16.” 

“Don't say that, Dean. You deserve better than that.” Castiel reaches out for him, but Dean pulls away before he can touch him. His heart is racing and he's not sure why. It's not about what he deserves. If only you knew what I do on the streets every week, he thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. 

Castiel is watching him with concern, so Dean just smiles and takes the full muffin form and carries it over to the somewhat battered motel room oven. “So your idea of a getaway is a crappy motel in a hill-billy town, huh? Must be an incredibly crappy job you have,” he chuckles. 

The mood lightens after that. They both stand leaned against the kitchen counter and watch the muffins slowly rise inside the oven. Castiel doesn't ask any more questions. Instead, he tells him about his fascination with the stars, and Dean tells him about the time when he was 8, when they stayed with their uncle Bobby for the weekend and watched shooting stars over the lake. 

“The meteor shower is tonight,” Castiel says suddenly, as Dean checks the muffins by poking them with a baking stick. “In... two hours actually,” he says, after looking at his wrist watch.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come with me.” 

Dean smirks and leans back against the counter, raising an eyebrow at Cas. “Why, are you asking me out on a date or something?” 

Castiel tilts his head a little and watches him with an expression that's impossible to read. “Do you want it to be a date?”

Dean feels his face heat up and his eyes go wide before he can collect himself and he coughs into his palm. He huffs. “I was just joking.” He pushes off the counter to get the oven mitts and carefully take the muffin tray out of the oven. 

The muffins are perfect, with fluffy round mushroom tops, and they smell heavenly. Both Dean and Castiel inhale deeply and Castiel steps up to him and puts a hand at the small of Dean's back. 

Dean flinches, but after a moment, he relaxes. Castiel's hand is warm and gentle and it isn't a predatory touch, the kind of touch that promises things he might not like. 

“These are fantastic, Dean. I'm very impressed.” Castiel smiles and takes another deep breath that ends in a moan and Dean copies his smile. A warm feeling spreads throughout his body. He can't remember the last time someone other than Sam has given him such a genuine compliment. 

\-------

They sit on the couch together and watch some documentary about windmills because it's the only thing on the crappy motel cable TV that only has 3 channels. They eat muffins once they've cooled and make fun of the reporter's remarkably ugly Hawaii shirt, which ends with Cas confessing he's once gone to a business meeting in a yellow and pink Hawaii shirt because all his dress shirts were in the laundry, which causes Dean to nearly choke on a piece of muffin. Castiel praises his muffin baking skills even more, until Dean's face is so red he has to tell him to cut it out. 

They sit close, like last time, but this time Castiel has his arm around the back of the couch, fingertips just grazing the back of Dean's shoulder. And no matter how much Dean tells himself it doesn't mean anything, he can't help but bask in the warmth inside him and the casual ease between them. 

Dean's hand is resting between their thighs and he can feel the heat of Castiel's skin through his jeans. He strokes his thigh under an impression to shift positions a little, but he doesn't dare do anything more than that. It's ridiculous, really. He has no trouble shedding all his clothes and grinding in strangers' laps, begging them to fuck him in his best porn star voice. And here he is, like that awkward kid in the cinema who's losing his shit over taking his date's hand.

It would be so easy. All he has to do is slide his hand a little to the right, up onto his thigh... 

Castiel's alarm clock goes off and Dean jumps several inches in his seat. 

Castiel glances at him and smiles amused before leaning forward to turn the obnoxious ringing off. “Sorry. Time to go,” he says.

“Go?” Dean asks and his eyes shift as he tries to figure out if this is Castiel's way of very bluntly kicking him out. 

“The meteor shower?” Castiel says and Dean's jaw goes slack.

“Right! Yes. Of course. I knew that.”

\-------

He waits while Castiel gathers his things, which doesn't take long because he already has the camera lenses and the camera packed and ready to go. The sky is clear now, no sign of the clouds that had carried in the drizzle. 

They load up the Prius, Castiel wearing a black wind-breaker that hugs his form frustratingly well. 

When they reach the lookout point, once again aided by Castiel's folding maps and Dean's impatient directions, the place is already crowded with people. Castiel says it's usually a lot worse, since this is just a meteor shower, but Dean can't help but be a little disappointed by the seven cars parked by the railing, several children excitedly running around on the grassy hills. He had hoped they'd be alone up here. 

“This is... unimpressive,” Dean says as he steps out of the car and wraps his arms around himself in the chill of the night. 

“It's the place described in the brochure,” Castiel says as he opens the back door of the Prius to get his equipment. 

“Brochure?!” Dean says and crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you realise you sound like a middle aged tourist? All you're missing is that hideous Hawaii shirt. No, man. I know a place much better than this,” he says and walks back to the passenger side. “Come on.”

Castiel pauses and looks at him, glancing back at the lookout point where a few people are fiddling with their cameras. “I hope you're right.”

“Just trust me,” Dean says and gets in, waiting for Cas to join him. 

Dean directs Castiel back onto the road and down a right turn further up. There's a fairly narrow trail leading up a steep hill and Dean has to instruct Castiel to gas up, because the accountant and his Prius have apparently never done any off-roading before. 

They have to get out and walk the last short distance through some trees, but it's all worth it when they reach the open space on the other side and Castiel's face lights up like a kid at Christmas.

They're at the top of a steep hill, with a 50 feet drop straight down. All around, there's a perfect, clear view of the sky, and the best part is that they're completely alone. The stars are unusually bright like they only ever are outside the city when there's not a single cloud in the sky.

Dean knows this place because he came here a few times when they just moved to town two months ago. He had been turning tricks close to a year already, but it's always a little nerve wrecking moving to a new town with a new system, new hunting grounds, new police routes and new regular clients. The hill had quickly become his safe place when he couldn't go home to John who was too drunk to remember his own son's name, although he hasn't been up here in weeks. 

“Dean, this is perfect,” Castiel says, distracting Dean from his train of thought and he's smiling excitedly, putting down his camera lens case to squeeze Dean's shoulders for a moment, and Dean could have sworn his ego just grew another ten inches. 

Dean keeps quiet while Castiel fiddles with his camera, screws on one lens and then changes his mind and screws on another. The lenses are huge and they look expensive. Dean estimates he'd have to suck a good 80 dicks to be able to afford gear like that.

Castiel sets up his tripod and they sit down on the grass together. Then they wait. 

“So... when does it start?” Dean asks after about five minutes of absolutely nothing happening. 

Castiel laughs. “This is space we're dealing with. It doesn't operate on a schedule. We'll just have to be patient. I'll return tomorrow, but the peak is supposed to be tonight.”

“Huh.” 

They sit in silence for another few minutes, until the first line of bright light shines across the sky. Dean's just about to point it out to Cas, when he realises the other man is already on his feet and is adjusting his camera on the tripod in the right direction. 

“Are you filming it?” Dean asks.

“Mhm,” Castiel answers, without looking away from the lens. “It's easier than taking photos since they come and go so quickly.”

Dean turns back towards the sky just in time to see another bright light, and then a third right afterwards. He watches for a while, two dozen or so meteors burning out in the sky while Castiel keeps his eye on the camera. It seems like Castiel was right, they're definitely more frequent now. Dean counts over 10 in the span of just one minute. 

When he turns around, Cas is still focused on his camera. Dean sighs, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. It's getting pretty cold sitting on the grass like this. 

“Cas.”

“What?” He looks up from the camera and meets Dean's eyes as three bright stripes light up on the sky at the same time.

“You don't wanna see the whole thing through a camera lens. Come here,” Dean says and he holds out his arm. 

Castiel seems torn for a moment, but then he finally leaves the camera to film on it's own and goes over to Dean. He sits down close and Dean wraps his arm around his shoulders without even thinking. A moment later, Castiel reciprocates, and then they sit pressed close together, soaking up each other's warmth and watching the sky. 

Okay, so maybe this wasn't as boring as Dean had thought it would be. They watch the stars for a little while, huddled together while Castiel explains where the meteors come from and why it's happening. Dean doesn't really remember much of what Castiel tells him, he just listens to that deep voice that is somehow both rough and soft at the same time, like sweet chocolate that melts on the tongue, the way it strains when he gets particularly excited. He doesn't even really feel the cold anymore. Dean wonders if this is what normal people's lives are like. 

They stay until it starts slowing down and their joints and muscles are stiff, and then Castiel stops the camera and they head back to the Prius. They sit in the car and Castiel starts the engine and turns the heating on and they sit and warm themselves up for a few minutes. 

“Thank you for a wonderful night, Dean,” Castiel says, and his voice is calm and thoughtful in a way that makes Dean tilt his head as he looks at him. “You were right, it was better without the camera.”

Castiel gives him a small smile, but Dean can't help but think there's something like sadness in his eyes. “It's been a long time since I've enjoyed myself in someone else's company. But you're easy to talk to. You're something special, Dean.”

Dean huffs on instinct and then he cringes at how cynical that sound was. “I'm really not. But thanks,” he says and looks out the passenger window.

Castiel lowers his hands from the dashboard ventilator and puts the car in reverse. He speaks again when he turns from the narrow trail back onto the road. “Why do you insist on degrading your own worth?” Castiel asks. 

Dean's taken by surprise and he feels his defensive walls going up. “You don't know me at all,” Dean says and it comes out harsher than he meant it. 

“I'd like to,” Castiel says and his voice is carefully calm and diplomatic. 

Dean looks across at him, one half of Castiel's face cast in shadow, the other lit up by the street lights as they drive back into town. Something like conflict churns in Dean's gut. He's starting to like Cas. More than he wants to admit. But the harsh reality stings in his chest. He's fooling himself if he thinks he'll ever have a chance with the fancy accountant with his fancy job in California and his fancy hobby. He's just a hooker who couldn't even finish high school. 

That reality check leaves him gasping for air for a moment. “You're great, Cas. Really. But I'm not the good guy you think I am.” 

“Maybe you should give yourself a chance to be,” Castiel says as he holds back for the red light and for some reason, his words ignite a defiance in Dean's chest. He knew this was going to happen sooner or later. Given, it's a lot sooner than he had hoped, but maybe he has lived this cute little fantasy long enough. What's even the point of keeping this up, if it's just gonna end with Cas going back home never to call him or text him again once he sees Dean's true colors? Nothing good ever lasts. It's just gonna get him hurt.

He let's out a bitter huff and the sound is enough to make Castiel turn his head when he parks in front of the Reynold's motel. “What?” he asks, brows furrowed.

“You really don't know shit about me, Cas. So don't tell me what to do. If I were you, I wouldn't bother, cause you're gonna be royally disappointed. But what do I know, I'm just a highschool drop-out who fucks guys in back alleys for a living.” 

Before his brain has even fully caught up with his body, he's out of the car and crossing the parking lot. He hears Castiel call for him, but he doesn't turn around. He just keeps walking, onto the road and to the right and all the way home, heart racing. 

A small part of him is hoping that Castiel will follow him, pull up next to him in his Prius and tell him to come back. But it doesn't happen. 

His throat is tight and painful with how hard he's stubbornly trying to hold back tears. He has been a god damn fool. He shouldn't have let it get this far. He shouldn't have gotten so attached, like that cute little puppy him and Sam found on a street corner that they knew wouldn't last the winter, but they couldn't afford to feed. It's only hurting this much because he let himself like Cas too much. 

It sneaked up on him. Like the way Cas's fingers grazed his shoulder, how his hand gently found the small of Dean's back. He barely knows him, but suddenly, he found himself with butterflies in his stomach whenever Cas sent him a text, and shivers down his spine at the sound of his voice. 

But who was he fooling? Cas was only hanging out with him because he didn't know who Dean really is. If he had known, he wouldn't have said those nice things about him. If he knew Dean had his hands down countless men's pants for money on a weekly basis, he wouldn't even have touched those stupid muffins. But now the cat's out of the bag. No more skirting around the truth. No more pretending to be something that he isn't. 

Despite his attempts to hold back his tears, they start streaming down his cheeks and he wipes them away angrily with the back of his hand. 

How the hell is he supposed to do better? What does that uptown asshole even expect? He has no other options, no money. But turning tricks he can do. It gets him fed. It gets Sam fed. It pays their bills and ensures that John doesn't end up in a court room with all the bills he forgets to pay. 

He can take care of his family. And if he has to take dicks up his ass and down his throat every week and struggle to hide the ugly, dark bruises on his hips and thighs every time a client gets too rough and pushes him around, then so be it.

He doesn't have a choice, it just has to be done. So he's not gonna let some pretentious asshole tell him that he does. 

The police car is gone when he turns down his own street. He's surprised to find the house dark and quiet when he gets inside, but then he looks at the clock that tells him it's 11 PM. Damn. He's been with Cas for 3 hours. It feels like much longer. 

The kitchen is a mess. There's laundry on the floor and there's a big patch where John spilled beer once and no one bothered to wipe it up, so the floor boards raised. There's dirty dishes in the sink and stacked up on the counter and even though Dean does his best to keep the place clean, there's only so much he can do in a shithole like this. 

He sighs when he drapes his jacket over the back of the couch. This is his reality, and he hasn't wished upon a shooting star since he was 6. He glances at his phone when he pulls it out of his pocket and sees that he has a missed call from Cas. He deletes the notification before he can give it any thought. 

It's when he's lying in bed that it hits him that he has effectively ruined the first friendship he's had in years.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean is back walking the streets the next few nights. He needs a distraction, because the house is empty and the garage is closed today and Dean's freakin' crawling the walls in an attempt to avoid thinking about Cas and looking at his phone ever 5 minutes. He has a heat bill to pay and the fridge is empty. Sam already complained about it twice.

Cas called him once, but Dean didn't pick up, struck by a mix of guilt, longing and strange determination. He also texted a few times, but Dean didn't even dare read them in case they might weaken his resolve. On Tuesday, Cas doesn't call or text at all. Which should be a good thing, cause that's what he wants, right? But then why does it feel so awful? 

He skips dinner since Sam is at a friend's house anyways, and goes out early. This time, however, he sticks to the quieter places, just in case the cops are still patrolling the town. 

But it turns out that it pretty much defeats the purpose, since Dean needs distractions, and walking up and down empty roads for half an hour gives him nothing but time to think.

Why would hooking up with Cas be such a bad thing? They can hang out, fuck, have fun for a while, until Cas has to leave for California. Dean has done this with countless girls and boys alike when he was a few years younger and sex for money didn't leave him physically and emotionally exhausted. 

But then, Cas isn't like the others. Sure, he had a crush on that blond guy with the green eyes at Bobby's lakehouse two years ago, but it didn't feel anything like this. The way Castiel's voice sends a shiver down his spine, the way his heart starts to race whenever Cas' hand lands on his back or shoulder. 

What does he even know about the guy? He's 26, he lives in California, he has a boring job and he likes the stars. It's barely anything. So why the fuck does he feel this way? 

“Fuck,” he gasps when a car cuts him off and the driver leans over to glare at him through the open window. 

“Where the fuck's your head at? I've been tailing you for 30 seconds. Are you selling or not?” 

Dean's jaw goes slack and he quickly nods and gets in the car.

“Money up front,” he says, voice going on auto. It's very far from his usual act, but the guy doesn't seem to care.

“Slow down, tiger. I don't even know if you're any good. What are you offering?”

“Anything,” Dean says without hesitation. 

“And if you suck?” the client asks and drives into an empty lot behind the old abandoned warehouse. 

“That's 20 bucks,” Dean says and tries to get into the proper head space by focusing on the guy next to him. 

“No, I mean if you fucking suck, will I get my money back?” he asks, a challenging smile on his lips as he parks the car.

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Sure, yeah, whatever,” he just says, because he's not in the mood for an argument and because he knows he gives fucking amazing blowjobs. 

The client gestures for him to get out and opens his own door, turning around to sit with his feet on the ground as he counts out 20 dollars. He hands them to Dean when he comes around to the driver's side and Dean counts them quickly before sticking them in his pocket and dropping to his knees.

At first, the client doesn't seem very cooperate, letting Dean unzip his jeans and tug down his underwear and pull his still mostly soft cock free. 

Dean gets to work right away and it quickly becomes clear that this guy's a marathoner. It takes him over two minutes to even get him hard. Usually, Dean's clients are rough and quick, so it doesn't take long until his jaw starts to hurt. 

With a groan, the client strokes his hand through Dean's hair at the back of his head and then tightens his grip, holding Dean's head in place as he bucks up. Taken by surprise, he chokes, muscles tensing in an attempt to pull away, but then he closes his eyes and concentrates on relaxing.

The client fucks him deep on every thrust, cock sliding into Dean's throat, making his eyes water. But this is what he wanted. A distraction. He certainly got one. So he lets his jaw go slack and relaxes his throat, letting the client set the pace and taking quick breaths in between. 

His jaw is aching and his throat feels raw by the time the client comes and he buries deep and chokes Dean for the 50th time when he spills down his throat. Fuck. Fuck. 

Dean pulls away, pushing on the client's legs and he coughs, drawing in rasping breaths. 

Fuck. 

He forgot the condom.

He barely registers the car door slamming shut and the client driving off, leaving Dean retching and spitting in the empty lot. He keeps retching, even if he knows it's no use. If the client had something, he has it now, too. He'll have to go to the clinic first thing in the morning. 

Getting up, he kicks an empty trash can that topples over. Why does he keep making these damn rookie mistakes?

At least he can buy himself a mineral water and wash that disgusting taste out of his mouth. 

After that, he goes out to the truck stop. Usually, he doesn't have to worry about guys getting rough. He can defend himself, that's one good thing John has taught him. He might be selling his body for sex, but he's not a punching bag. More than a few times, a job gone wrong has resulted in a fist fight with Dean coming out on top. 

But when a large trucker, a good head taller than Dean shoves him so he hits his head on the truck's side mirror, he doesn't even think to protest. This isn't gentle touches and sweet words. This is what his life is. And there's no room for fairy tales here. 

It's when he's face down against the hard, unforgiving floor of the back of a truck, that his phone rings. It's on vibrate, but he can see the display light up through the fabric of his discarded jeans right in front of him. The phone seems to ring forever and then goes quiet. Maybe 20 seconds pass, and then it rings again. 

As his current client grunts and pants and relentlessly pounds into him, Dean wonders who might be calling him. The only people who ever call him are Sam and dad, both of which would likely mean bad news. So he arches his back and squeezes around the cock in his ass, throwing himself into the dirtiest moaning he can manage in the hopes that it might get his client to finish faster so he can pick up the phone. 

\-------

His knees are aching, he has lube running down the insides of his thighs and sweaty hand prints all over his back and he could really use a quick, improvised shower in the truck stop's restroom after 4 clients in a row, but as soon as he's gotten dressed, his phone rings for the third time. 

He stares at the number on the display and he doesn't recognize it. 

“Hello?” 

_“Dean Winchester?”_

“Who's this?” he asks, and walks over to the side of the buildings, a little out of view. 

_“You're John Winchester's son right? Well he's here, in my bar, Marcy's, on the corner of main street. You know the place? You're gonna have to come take your daddy home, cause he's drunk as fuck and he's causing a ruckus and in a minute, someone's either gonna call the cops or pull out a shotgun, and in this neighbourhood, the latter is more likely.”_

Dean hears shouting and yelling on the other end and he has to hold the phone a distance from his ear to avoid getting tinnitus. 

“Shit. Yeah, okay. I'm on my way. I'll be there in 10.”

_“Make it 5.”_

There's a click when the guy hangs up and Dean swears under his breath. The walk from the truck stop to the centre of town takes 15 minutes, 10 if he runs some of the time. 

He starts running, and a pickup truck pulls up next to him. “Need a ride?” the guy asks and Dean slows down. 

“I'm in a hurry,” he says, making it clear that he has no time for quickies and the guy shrugs. 

“Can you pay?”

Dean hesitates, then gets in the car. 

The 3 minute drive from the truck stop to the centre of the town costs him 15 bucks which is a ridiculous overprice, but John ending up in jail is a way worse price to pay, so Dean doesn't argue. 

When he gets out of the car and runs across the street, the first thing that reaches him are voices. When he turns the corner, the severity of the situation is clear. 

“Get the fuck out of here, Winchester. I'm sick of looking at your face.” A older man in overalls and an unloaded shotgun dangling from his left hand is trying to physically shove John out the door, who's standing stubbornly in the doorway, trying to loudly argue with someone further inside who Dean can't see. 

The window next to the front door is broken and there are shards of glass all over the pavement. John is bleeding from his right hand, but doesn't seem to notice. He staggers to the side when the man Dean assumes is the barkeeper shoves him again and John yells something at him, clearly drunk out of his mind. 

Dean pushes past a few young guys who are lingering to watch the quarrel, when John suddenly punches the barkeeper right in the face so the older man falls back against the brick wall. 

A second guy comes from inside the bar and suddenly everything turns ugly very fast. The second guy gets all up in John's face, ready to start throwing punches, and Dean runs over and wedges himself in between them, pushing them apart.

“Hey! Calm the fuck down,” Dean yells, and then he hears a click and when he turns his head, the barkeeper is back on his feet, blood running down his face from his broken nose and he's aiming his shotgun right at John. 

“He stole my fucking money,” the second guy yells and points an accusing finger at John, pushing against Dean. “Give me my fucking money, shithead!” 

“I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding, alright? Just let him get out of here and he won't bother y-” Dean sees the man curl his fist and he ducks. When the guy stumbles forward, Dean elbows him in the face and turns around to punch him and then he goes down again. 

In the meantime, the barkeeper has decided he doesn't wanna shoot anyone and is yelling profanities from a distance. 

“You fucking assholes, all of you,” John yells,staggering forward. Dean grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around.

“Dad, let's just go,” he says and tugs on his arm. After a few seconds of resisting, John sighs and follows along, leaning heavily on Dean. 

“No respect, no god damn respect,” John mumbles as they cross the street together. People stare at them and whisper. Dean can feel his face grow red. His heart is still racing from the fight.

John reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a whole bunch of 100 dollar bills, snickering at Dean. Dean's eyes widen and his mouth falls open.

“You stole his money?!” 

“Hell yeah, the asshole should've held onto 'em better.”

John must have noticed Dan staring at the money, thinking about all the overdue bills they could pay for, cause he yanks them away and almost trips, making Dean groan from the weight of him. God, his breath stinks. “They're mine. Keep your little greedy hands away.”

Dean scowls. “Are you gonna buy food, then?”

“What? What do you expect? Eat what's in the fridge.”

Dean stops him at a red light. “The fridge is empty,” he says dryly and rolls his eyes when John yells at a cyclist. 

“Don't be so dramatic, Dean. Just get creative.”

He sighs and leads John across the road and down their own street. 

“Can I have 15 bucks at least? I had to pay for the ride to the bar to save your sorry ass. Sam needs to go to the dentist,” he says and lets go of John, walking beside him down the empty, dark street. 

John is suddenly yelling again. “Save me? I could have handled myself. I don't need your fucking help. And you're not getting my fucking money, you leech. Grow some balls and earn your own money, you useless little piece of...” He stumbles up the stairs and leans against the railing.

Dean stays where he is on the sidewalk, hands clenched at his sides. Tears sting in his eyes but he blinks them away. Why does everything have to be such a damn struggle?

“I don't give a shit if you care about me or not, but Sam needs you. Can't you just help your kid for once?” He stares at John with wide eyes, pleading, hoping to get through to that heart that he knows he has, buried under deep seas of alcohol. Slowly and carefully, John walks back down the stairs, all the way over to Dean. He pats his cheek a little too hard and smiles at him. 

“That's what he has you for, Dean,” he says and turns back around. The door slams shut after him. 

His stomach growls. He skipped dinner so he hasn't eaten in over 8 hours, but he doesn't wanna go inside. Still. He's had 4 clients tonight. He's disgusting and gross, inside and out and his body is basically screaming for a warm shower. So he bites the bullet. 

The silence is awkward and tense when he goes inside, makes himself a sandwich of bread that's so stiff it can crack in two and some sausage that doesn't smell too suspicious. 

He brushes his teeth, but his plans for the evening are cut short when he steps into the shower and realises it's colder than the fucking Arctic. “Shit.” 

He turns on the handle, checks the sink. There's no hot water. At all. Guess it'll be a quick shower, then.

He washes himself as fast as possible, teeth clattering and muscles trembling by the time he's done and he quickly dries himself off and wraps the towel around his waist. 

It's when he looks at himself in the mirror that it all cracks. A choked sob leaves him and tears fill his eyes. He lowers his head and squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to will them not to fall, but it's already too late. The little salty drops land on the inside of the sink and slides down into the drain. 

“I miss you mom,” he whispers and clutches at the edges of the sink. “I wish you were here. I wish you could just talk to dad, make him happy again. Everything would be better. I don't know what to do. I need help. I can't do this.” 

He drops down on the toilet lid and grips the sides of it, staring at the wall and taking deep breaths. He can't let John see him cry. He needs to get himself together, cause if he doesn't,  
nobody else will. He has responsibilities. He has Sam. He can't afford to slip up, he just can't. He has a job to do. Even if it kills him. Deep breaths. 

When he leaves the bathroom, John is asleep on the couch. Dean doesn't wanna stay here and he's not tired, so he decides to go back out and he snatches John's half empty bottle of whiskey off the table on the way. 

He walks fast down the streets, following every car that passes him with his eyes in between sipping from the bottle, but none of them stop. His heart is racing again, there's a tension inside of him that he needs rid of. He needs a good, hard fuck to relieve him of all this nervous energy and then he'll be back on track. 

“Come on,” he mumbles, as the 4th car passes him by. The alcohol burns down his throat, keeping him warm despite how he's wearing only a t-shirt in the cold November weather. He hasn't brought any condoms or lube, but it doesn't seem so important right now. He just needs someone to fuck him six ways from Sunday to set his head straight again. 

“Bullshit!” he exclaims as the next car passes him and he tosses the whiskey bottle across the street, the remaining liquid quickly soaking into the concrete. 

He crosses the parking lot and heads straight for the Reynolds motel and he doesn't give himself a chance to think it through before he knocks on Castiel's door. 

As soon as the door opens, he squeezes inside and Castiel's eyes are wide with surprise as Dean grabs his hips and backs him into the room. 

“Dean?!” Castiel's voice is shocked. “What's going on? Umpfh...” Dean pushes him against the counter and slide his hands up Castiel's chest.

“I want you to fuck me,” he growls in his ear and he kisses his way down Castiel's neck. 

“Dean...” 

Dean cuts him off the only way he can think to, with a hard and sudden kiss. He claims Castiel's mouth, breathes him in, even as he starts to shake, because Castiel isn't responding, he isn't doing what Dean wants him to and this is all wrong. 

Castiel turns his head away and he grips Dean's shoulders and tries to put some distance between them, but Dean pushes his hands off his shoulders and closes the space between them again. 

“Please just fuck me, Cas...” He meant it to sound sexy, confident, but it mostly sounds like a plea. 

“Dean, stop!” 

“Please...” 

And suddenly he's crying, tears are streaming down his face and he's clutching Castiel's shirt like he's terrified he's gonna push him away again. 

But this time, Castiel doesn't push. 

He draws Dean into his arms and hugs him tight, soft lips pressed to his temple, murmuring words of comfort and it's the most amazing thing Dean has felt in years. 

He clings to Cas as he cries, body shaking with sobs, tears and snot staining Castiel's pyjamas shirt, and Castiel just holds him, strokes his back and hushes him softly, breath warm against Dean's ear. 

Dean's not sure how long they stay like that, but long enough for the position to become a little uncomfortable and for his tears to run out and his shoulders to stop shaking. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispers and he looks down, doesn't dare meet Castiel's eyes. 

“Don't be,” Castiel replies, just as quietly and he reaches up and brushes his thumb over Dean's cheek to wipe away his tears and it's such an affectionate touch, it makes him shiver. 

“Stay here tonight,” Castiel says, and for once, Dean doesn't argue. He just nods a little and Castiel keeps his hand against Dean's back as he guides him into the bedroom. 

“Did I wake you up?” he asks. There's so much he needs to say, so much he needs to apologize for. But he doesn't, not yet. God, he's a mess. What was he thinking?

Castiel shakes his head. “I was reading,” he says, and Dean notices the open book on the bed. He gestures for Dean to sit down on the bed and goes over to the dresser. Searching through it, he finds a pair of soft pyjamas pants and hands them to Dean.

Dean murmurs his thanks, face burning from embarrassment and Cas leaves the bedroom to let Dean change in private. The pants are soft and well-worn. They feel nice.

Cas comes back with a glass of water and Dean drinks before putting the glass on the bedside table. He sits there on the edge of the bed a little awkwardly, waiting for Cas to set him up on the couch. But he doesn't. He goes around the bed and slips under the covers, closing the book and putting it on the bedside table.

Dean turns and looks at him, bottom lip between his teeth.

Cas pats the bed. 

Does Cas really wanna share a bed with him, when Dean's been acting like such a total asshole? He had yelled at him, ditched him in the parking lot, ignored his calls and texts and then shown up tipsy and emotional, demanding sex. “Cas, I...”

But Cas cuts him off. “We'll talk tomorrow. Come.” 

He pats the bed one more time, and this time, Dean moves. He pushes the covers aside and lays down on his side, facing Cas. Cas lifts his arm in invitation, and Dean only hesitates a moment before he wiggles closer and presses himself against Cas' chest. He fits there perfectly, head tucked under Castiel's chin, like they're matching puzzle pieces. 

It's the best night's sleep he's had since he was a kid. 

\-------

Dean's the first one to wake up. 

He's still lying pressed against Cas, he's hardly moved all night and he can feel it in the stiffness of his bones and muscles, but despite that, he feels good. 

They're okay. He hasn't fucked it up, thank god. A part of him never wanted to get rid of Cas, it's the part that's currently eternally grateful to be sharing his warmth and breathing in his scent. He lets himself revel in it for a few more seconds before he carefully pulls away, pulling the covers back up over Cas' shoulders. 

He tiptoes into the main room and looks around, goes over to the small kitchen and curiously opens drawers and cupboards. There's not much food, considering Cas probably eats dinner in the diner and then otherwise lives out of a cereal box. There's three different packets of tea next to the sink and he smiles and shakes his head. 

He does manage to find a box of pancake mix and there's milk and eggs so he can make breakfast. He's right in the middle of flipping his first pancake when he sees movement in the corner of his eye and he turns his head to see Cas in the doorway to the bedroom, looking just as groggy as a bear waking up from a months long hibernation. His heart skips a beat, cause he still owes Cas a talk, but for now, all he has to do is cook.

“I'm making breakfast,” he says and smiles as Cas walks over to him, rubbing a hand through his own hair. 

“I thought you had left,” he said and Dean's not sure, but he thinks he hears a little bit of relief in his tone. 

“I'm sorry. I just wanted to, you know...” He shrugs and Castiel nods.

“Thank you, Dean. It's nice of you.” 

They're both quiet as Dean finishes the pancakes, but it's a comfortable, easy silence. Dean knows he shouldn't get used to the nice feeling of them both moving around in the kitchen together, still warm and sleepy, but he allows himself to enjoy the moment at least a little bit. 

They ignore the dining table in favor of the couch and Cas turns the TV on with the audio on low. Dean watches him closely as he takes his first bite and he copies the smile that spreads on Castiel's face. 

“These are really good,” Castiel says and directs his smile at Dean and Dean is starting to feel like he does nothing but blush every time Cas opens his mouth. 

“It's nothing, really. It came out of a box. They would have been better if I had made them from scratch.”

Castiel smiles and he's just about to say something more, but then he closes his mouth again and his smile turns soft. “Still. Thanks for this, Dean.”

“You're welcome.”

They eat in silence. Cas is watching some morning talk show that Dean isn't paying attention to, because he's painfully aware of how close they are to 'the talk'. And he doesn't want to talk. He just wants to enjoy this a little longer, because he's almost certain that Cas is going to have some comments regarding his recent behaviour, and the fact that Dean spilled his late night profession the night he decided to ignore Cas for days without a word. And he deserves it. God knows, he does. But he's not sure he can handle it right now. 

He sighs. Might as well get it over with. 

“Cas, about the other day,” he says as soon as Castiel sets down his empty plate. 

“I knew,” Castiel interrupts, pulling his legs up onto the couch, turning towards Dean. 

“What?”

“Even if I hadn't already suspected it when you walked up to my car, I certainly had it confirmed when you refused to 'suck my dick' at the curb in front of the diner.”

Dean's mouth falls open and he stares at Cas in confusion for a few long seconds before he licks his lips and swallows. “You mean... You knew I was a hooker when you invited me to the meteor shower?”

Castiel nods and Dean runs a hand over his face. He replays the events of that night and the nights before. Cas had bought him food in the diner, they had laughed together, he had his arm around Dean on the hill, had said those nice things about him and he just shared his bed with him. “Fuck, I've been such a dick to you,” Dean says and hides his face in his hands. 

“Dean, it's alright...”

“No it's not! You've been so great and I repaid you by yelling and storming off and ignoring your calls and...” 

“Dean!”

He lifts his head and looks at Cas. “What?”

But instead of talking, Castiel leans in and cups Dean's jaw with one hand and then he presses a kiss to Dean's lips.

Dean's heart skips a beat. Several beats. He even forgets to close his eyes, he's too shocked. The kiss is chaste and soft and over way too soon. Castiel searches his face when he pulls away, as if he's worried he's crossed a line and Dean realises he was probably stiff as a board. 

Quickly, he reaches out for Cas and hooks a hand around the back of his neck and then he's kissing him again, for real this time, turning his head to deepen it and he tastes pancakes and syrup on Castiel's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Yes, I am aware that some STDs can transfer by kissing and it really wasn't a very good idea for Dean to be kissing Cas right after he he gave that blowjob in the parking lot. But I really really needed a kiss at the end of this chapter, so I decided to use some artistic liberty. No, Cas will not catch anything from Dean. 
> 
> But please! Don't go out having unprotected sex and then kiss someone! That is both irresponsible and very unfair to whoever you're smooching. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Brief, very unsuccessful attempt at rape.
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long! I've been busy, but here it is! Hope you enjoy!

“I really am sorry, though,” Dean murmurs, as they sit together on the couch, none of them paying much attention to the TV. 

He hears Cas sigh softly, but when he looks over at him, he doesn't look annoyed. “I forgive you, Dean. I'd like you to still come around. I like it when you're here.”

Dean nods. “I like it, too.” 

They watch until the credits, and then Dean shifts and gestures at the door. “Fuck, I gotta go. I have somewhere to be,” he says, suddenly reminded of his slip-up last night.

“I can drive you,” Castiel offers as he takes their empty plates to the counter. 

“No, that's okay. It's at the clinic, just down the street. I need to get tested.” He watches Castiel's face as he says it, looking for any clues that Cas might regret saying that he's perfectly fine with Dean's late night profession. But Castiel just frowns with a concerned look on his face.

“Are you alright?” he asks and Dean nods quickly.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry.” 

He gets up and helps Cas with the dishes and then Cas walks him to the door. An idea strikes him and he works up to it all the way up to the point where he grabs the door handle. Then he pauses and turns back around.

“I was thinking,” he starts, trying to sound as casual as possible as he rubs the back of his neck. “Do you wanna have lunch with me? I know this isn't exactly a five star town, but I know a place that's a little better than the diner.” 

Castiel's face lights up in a soft but warm smile. “I'd love to, Dean. As much as I like burgers and fries, it's starting to get a little repetitive.”

Dean does a mental fist pump, but he controls his expression. “Great. Tomorrow? I'll be working in the garage the next two days after that, so...”

Castiel nods. “Tomorrow it is.” 

They hug and Dean leans in a little awkwardly and kisses Castiel's cheek, then heads out before he can embarrass himself any more.

So apparently they just went from friends, to over, to dating. Dean isn't sure how in the world he managed that, but he likes the feeling. For the first time in his life, he feels like something might just work out alright. 

\-------

The tests at the clinic are quick and uncomfortable as usual, and they let him know they'll text him with the results within 48 hours.

The next day is a Monday and Sam's classes don't start till 10, so they get to eat breakfast together and chat at the table. Dean loves it. Even on most weekends, Sam isn't home cause he takes every chance he can get to leave the house in case John should come around. 

Dean argues that most days, John isn't so bad. He's either asleep or doesn't really acknowledge the fact that he has sons, but Dean knows that Sam takes the fights and the drinking harder than he does himself. 

“So... about college,” Sam says and he's hesitant, like he's embarrassed to bring up the subject. Dean places Sam's plate of toast in front of him and then sits down with his own.

“You're still aiming for Stanford, right?” 

Sam meets his eyes and then bites his lip and looks down. “I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know?” Dean asks and leans his elbows on the table. “You're doing great in school, you're smart as fuck, you've wanted to go for years.”

Sam curls in on himself even more as he pushes the toast around his plate. “I know. And I still do, I just... college is expensive, Dean.”

Dean clenches his jaw and he's already shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Don't you worry about that, Sammy. We'll figure it out. Just like we always do. Okay? The whole school thing didn't work out for me, but you can still make it. We'll look into financial aid, scholarships. And then you're gonna become a lawyer so that when I steal a car and the cops pull me over, you can keep me out of jail.” He smiles and winks at Sam and he gets a small smile in return. “It'll be okay, Sammy. I promise.”

Dean walks Sam to school, despite Sam's protests that he's too old for that kind of thing. But Sam's mood is much improved and they laugh and joke like they used to when they were younger. Along with his visits at Cas', it's the fuel that keeps Dean going. 

“Been hanging out with your friend lately?” Sam asks, as if he just read Dean's mind and Dean whips his head around a little too fast before he composes himself.

“Yeah! Yeah, he's a pretty cool guy,” Dean says and he's ready to let the conversation go, but Sam is watching him with the attention of a dog watching a steak.

“What's he into?”

“Into?” Dean asks and makes a weird face. “Uh... He likes the stars, I guess. Why?”

Sam shrugs and he looks a little too satisfied with himself for Dean's liking. 

“Are you gonna see him again?”

Dean widens his eyes at him. Why does Sam suddenly care so much? “I guess we're gonna hang out. Don't get too excited, though. He's only here on vacation. He's heading back to California in less than a month.” 

Sam's face falls a little. “Oh.” 

Dean glances at him. “Weirdo.”

“Shut up,” Sam replies and runs across the road, waving at Dean as he heads across the school yard.

Dean huffs and shakes his head, walking back down the street. He texted Cas earlier, they'll meet at the motel at 12 and drive to the café together. So he has just over an hour to shower and find a shirt that isn't either holed or has weird stains on it. Should be doable.

He takes a short-cut down an alley and passes by a group of men drinking beer on the porch of a house. He feels their eyes in the back of his head as he passes them, but they don't say anything. Maybe they're past clients, but he doesn't turn his head to check. 

When he turns the next corner, he's absolutely sure he's being followed. He doesn't turn around, but he can tell. Call it instinct. So when he heads down between an old building and a metal link fence, he slips in between two dumpsters and waits. 

The guy turns the corner, passes him, and then stops.

“What the fuck do you want?” Dean asks as he steps out of the shadow of the dumpsters and then his eyes widen, cause he recognize this guy when he spins around. 

Images flash before his eyes. The dark hair, dark eyes. A large silver piercing. A cop flashing a light in his eyes just before he bolts. 

“You owe me money. Or a fuck. You decide,” the guy says and clenches his fists as he walks towards Dean. 

Dean takes a deep breath. If this turns ugly, he's prepared. “I don't have any money. And hey, come on, you were like 90% finished anyway.” 

“Then you owe me 10%.” The guy lunges forward and pushes Dean against the wall. Dean groans when the back of his head slams against the bricks. The guy's both faster and stronger than he thought. 

“Oh, hell no,” Dean groans as the guy tries to push him down on the stomach on the concrete. Dean kicks him in the shin and goes for a punch in the face, but misses when the man evades. He sees a strike coming and he pushes it out of the way, twists his body out of his grasp and takes several steps back. 

The guy is on him again in a second and they exchange a series of punches, none of them getting an upper hand until Dean leaves his jaw vulnerable for a split second too long and the guy's knuckles collide with the bottom of it so hard that his teeth slam together. He sees stars for a moment and another punch quickly follows and then he's going down. 

He reaches out and grabs, closes his hands around whatever he can reach which turns out to be the front of a jacket. He's on his back on the cold ground, a heavy body on top of him, but now he's regaining his senses.

And he's pissed.

Dean catches the fist coming towards his face, squeezes and twists as hard as he can and then he knees the guy in the stomach once, twice, until he starts to wobble. From there, it's easy to push him off and Dean pins him down and punches him in the face, catches his fist again and punches again, and again. Blood splatters across the concrete from a broken nose. 

Time seems to slow down as he sees the shine of metal, of a spring knife being pulled from the guy's jeans pocket. 

Suddenly there's yelling and footsteps and he's being yanked to the side and pushed up against the metal fence that strains and wobbles.

“What the fuck?” Dean yells, confused, disoriented. A pair of strong hands hold his wrists together and then he hears the click of handcuffs. “Calm the fuck down, you're under arrest,” a voice barks and he twists his head around far enough to cast a glance at the police uniform of the guy who's holding him. His former client is face down on the pavement, held down by a second cop securing his wrists n cuffs. 

“I was attacked, he jumped me,” the guy cries out and Dean snarls and tries to twist his body around.

“Fucking bullshit,” Dean shouts and he groans when the cop gives him him a hard shove against the shoulder and continues to pat him down. 

“Calm down, boys. You're both going to the station,” Dean's cop says and yanks him off the fence, pushing him first towards the car. Dean spits out blood on the ground before he gets in, a hand against the top of his head. 

Fuck. He's in deep shit. 

\-------

They bring him to the station one town over, sits him down in the middle of the main room at the entrance desk and cuffs his hands at the front instead. His client is on the opposite side of him and they exchange glances before Dean looks down. They take his phone, his house keys and everything else he has in his pockets. The big clock on the wall reads 11.27. If he can get out of here quick, he still has time to get ready and meet Cas at the motel. 

He waits. 

And waits. 

Someone brings him a wet rag to wipe the blood off his face and hands. There's more of it than he had thought.

It's 11.54 before a female cop sits down in front of him and he's starting to think he might have to call Cas and let him know he'll be running a little late.

She asks his name and age and he answers as he impatiently taps his hand against his thigh. “Look, the guy jumped me. I just defended myself. That's my right as a citizen of America or whatever,” he says and leans across the table, giving her his best 'innocent young man' look, but she's not even looking at him. 

“As far as the reports go, you were on top of him, holding him down as you repeatedly hit him in the face, breaking his nose and several teeth.”

Good, Dean thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. “He had a knife,” he says instead, confidently leaning back in his chair. 

“Yes, lucky for you, Mr. Winchester,” she says and glares at him. 

That's when he spots a cop that looks strangely familiar. He narrows his eyes and watch him, until the guy turns his head in Dean's direction and Dean nearly chokes on his next breath. 

It's the cop from that night. The guy with the flash light who interrupted his session and shouted at him as he darted into the bushes. He's pretty sure. 80% sure. Fuck. If the cop recognizes him, he's in even deeper shit. He turns his chair half around, the female cop's voice bringing him back to the moment. “I can see you have quite a list of minor offences. Mostly shoplifting, some occasional street fights.”

“So, what, am I going to jail?”

She looks up from her file and gives him a condescending look. “No, Dean. But maybe it's best you stay here overnight to cool your head.”

Dean's eyes widen. “No, really, I'm cool. Very cool. I swear.” The cop from the other night walks right by him and Dean ducks his head. 

The female cop narrows her eyes at him. “You'll be escorted to a holding cell. Get some rest, Mr. Winchester.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I get a phone call,” he says as she stands him up and guides him down a hall by the shoulder. 

“Calm down, this isn't the state penitentiary, you'll be out tomorrow.”

“No, really,” he insists, turning his head so he can look at her. “You gotta let me call my little brother and let him know I'm okay.”

The cop opens the door to a small room with an even smaller cell in the back. She opens the door and lets him inside and leaves without a word. 

Dean drops down on the small, hard cot and runs his hands over his face. So he's most definitely missing lunch with Cas. Way to go, Dean. First you throw a fit and leave him, then you get yourself locked up. Cas will think he ditched him. And the date was even his own idea. 

The door opens and a guard steps in. He sticks his hand through the bars and Dean looks up realizes he's holding out a phone. He quickly snatches it as if he's afraid it's gonna be taken away again if he's not fast enough.

He dials Sam's number. A mechanic voice lets him know all his conversations are being recorded. It rings. And rings. Sam's probably in class right now. He speaks after the beep.

“Hey, Sammy. It's me. Just calling to let you know I won't be home tonight, I got, uh.. a bit of extra work.” 

He feels bad lying to Sam about something like this. But he doesn't wanna worry him. It's only for one night, after all. He can tell him the truth tomorrow. 

He waits, unsure if someone's gonna come get the phone. He hesitates, dials Cas' number and then hesitates again. He's maybe a little embarrassed that he already knows the number by heart, after such a short time. 

Cas picks up after just a few seconds. 

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, Cas. It's me,” he says quietly.

_“Dean! Is everything okay?”_

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

_“I called you and you didn't pick up. It's almost 1 PM, I was getting worried.”_

“Fuck, sorry, Cas. I, uh... Some shit happened. I'm not gonna make it.” 

_“What happened?”_ He sounds worried. Guilt twists Dean's stomach. 

“Some guy followed me down a street, things got ugly. He pulled a knife right when the cops came and they brought us both in. I'm okay though,” he chuckles a little. “I can hold my own.”

There's silence on the other end for a second. _“I don't doubt it. So long as you're okay. Is there anything you need?”_

“No, no, I'm good.”

They're both quiet.

“So... You're not mad at me?”

Castiel chuckles and makes Dean smile. _“Of course I'm not mad at you. It wasn't your fault.”_

“I owe you lunch.”

_“We'll figure something out. How long are they keeping you?”_

“Just overnight. Not sure I'll get much sleep in this dump, though. I'm not entirely sure this mattress isn't stuffed with hay.”

They both laugh, but then the door opens again and the same cop comes in and tells him his time us up. 

“Cas, I gotta go. I'm sorry, okay? I'll see you soon.”

He doesn't hear Cas' reply, cause the cop is banging on the bars of the cell and Dean growls when he hangs up and hands the phone back. 

\-------

It's somewhere around 2 in the afternoon. Dean can't even nap, he's way too riled up. His head hurts, he really needs to take a piss and he's pretty sure he has a split lip. Plus, he really fucking hopes that cop with the flashlight hasn't seen him coming in here cause then he'll have to explain why he was riding some dude's dick by the side of the road at 11 at night. 

He sighs and pulls his legs up, leaning against the wall. He's already getting restless. The cell is quiet, the only window is small and up high. It leaves him with just his thoughts to entertain himself and Dean's not very happy about that, cause his mind has a way of resurfacing all the most recent crap he'd rather just ignore. Thoughts about his dad, his clients. 

Sometimes he thinks about a voice yelling at him, calling him a loser, a nobody, a failure, and he's not sure if it's the voice of his father or the voice of a client saying them. The nightmares are bad enough. He doesn't need to deal with this crap when he's awake, too. 

He wonders what his dad would say if he called him and told him he had been arrested. He probably wouldn't care. Maybe he wouldn't even pick up the phone if he saw Dean's name on the display. 

The door to the room opens again and Dean's heart skips a beat, cause this is it. The cop recognized him. He's been found out. But the guy just walks over to his cell and unlocks it, holding the door open. “You're free to go.”

Dean stays where he is and stares at the guy, lips parted. “What?”

“You can go. Come on.” The cop waves a hand and Dean gets up, stares at him even as he walks out of the cell and down the corridor into the main room. 

“Hey, Dean.” 

Dean's eyes fall on the guy leaned against the entrance desk. He meets Dean's eyes and smiles.

“Cas?!” Dean asks in disbelief and walks over to him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Thought I'd come pick you up.”

“How did you manage to make them let me go?” he asked, worried for a moment that Cas paid some kind of bail for his release.

“They made me promise I'd drive you straight home and keep you on the right side of the law.” He winks at Dean and it's an awkward movement that tugs at his top lip. It makes Dean smile. 

“Turns out they're not really that interested in keeping lesser offenders in the cells, taking up the space that could be used more efficiently.” 

Someone hands Dean a bag with his belongings. 

“Whatever you say, I'm just happy to get out of here.” 

They head outside together and Dean stops Cas in front of the station. “Hey, thank you. Really. You didn't have to do that.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” Castiel's gaze is calm but determined and Dean can't hold it for more than a few seconds before looking away. He feels like he could loose himself in those eyes, if he's not careful.

“So I guess I kind of ruined our lunch date,” Dean says once they're in the car, cringing at the word 'date', but Castiel just chuckles.

“Well you probably shouldn't be going anywhere looking like that.”

Dean looks down himself and grimaces. There are little drops of blood all over his shirt, his knuckles on both hands are bruised and scraped and he's pretty sure he's been bleeding from a cut on his face cause there's dried blood on his skin that itches, despite his attempts at cleaning himself with the wash cloth. He huffs. He was about to go home and change into something nice before meeting Cas. That didn't exactly go as planned. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Things happen. I'm just glad you're okay. You can borrow my shower if you want,” he says as he pulls out onto the road and Dean looks across at him.

“Thanks. I could really use a shower.”

He has two missed calls from Sam, and he calls him on the drive back to town, letting him know everything's okay and that he can call if he needs anything. Sam sounds instantly relieved, but Dean hangs up the phone when Sam asks if he's spending the night with Cas. Why's Sam even so interested in Cas? Not that he would be opposed to spending the night, but that's Cas' decision. 

Along with the missed calls, there's a text from the clinic. Those messages always make his heart skip a beat as he opens them, but so far they've always been good news. This one's no exception. He's clean. 

“Still haven't figured out the GPS yet?” he asks as they drive up to the Reynolds Motel and he sticks his phone back in his pocket. 

Castiel glares at it like it's done him some great injustice. “Well you haven't taught me yet.”

Dean laughs. “I could tonight. If you have time?”

Castiel nods. “Good idea,” he says and Dean gets the GPS off the dashboard so they can look at it inside. 

It's almost 3 PM and it's a little late for lunch, so Castiel says he'll just head out and buy them some sandwiches while Dean showers. Dean feels a little bad about Cas once again paying for their food, so he decides to make up for it and cook Cas dinner tonight. 

The motel shower is nothing fancy, but it does the trick and the water is warm much longer than back home, so he lingers under the hot spray long enough to hear the front door open and close again. When he pushes the shower curtain aside, there's a pile of clean clothes on the closed toilet lid for him. He looks around a little as he dries himself off, then picks up the clothes and holds them up. 

There's a pair of loose sweatpants and an old faded t-shirt. The clothes are worn and comfy and smells like Cas and maybe that's a bit of a creepy thing to get happy about, but he can't help it. When he comes back out, Cas is putting plates on the table and he smiles when he looks up and gestures at Dean. 

“I hope those are okay. I didn't want you to have to put your dirty clothes back on. The t-shirt is old, but I figured it might fit you since your shoulders are a little wider than mine.” 

“Oh, yeah, it's fine. It's perfect,” Dean says, suddenly flustered by the fact that Cas has apparently noticed little things about him, like the width of his shoulders. 

Cas' gaze drops to Dean's lips and he frowns and Dean keeps still as he walks over to him. He blinks when Cas reaches up and swipes his thumb over his lips.

“You have a cut,” Cas says and Dean's confused for a moment until he remembers the fight in the alley. 

“Oh. Right. Well, it doesn't hurt. It'll heal.” 

Cas looks down between them. “How are your hands?” 

Dean holds them up and Castiel takes them. “You better not be making a habit of this,” he says and meets Dean's eyes again. His voice is serious and concerned enough to make Dean feel a little guilty. 

“I try not to. It's a little hard when guys freakin stalk me down alleyways.”

They take a seat on the couch, close together. Cas pulls his feet up onto the couch and balances his plate on his lap. “Did you owe him money or something?” he asks and Dean shakes his head a little.

“He thought so. Eh... He was a client, he fucked up, the police came. I was running from the cops the day I came by your place.” He looks up from his sandwich and meets Castiel's eyes and he can't help but smile at how shocked Cas looks. 

“Your way of life really isn't very safe or stable,” Cas notes before biting into his own sandwich.

Dean huffs and his smile fades. “Tell me something I don't know.”

Cas opens his mouth to something more, but then closes it again as if he knows it's not his place to argue. 

“I can handle myself,” Dean says finally and takes a bite.

“I know you can. Just, please, be careful.”

The conversation strays, then. Dean learns that Castiel has more than a few brothers and sisters and that life back in California can get a little hectic, especially since there was a recent falling out between two of Castiel's older brothers that left the family split in two. 

They continue talking, even after they're done eating. Talking to Cas is easy. He tells him about Sam, about Mary who died when he was little, about all the towns they have lived in and he even tells him a little about John. Not the really bad stuff, just enough to give Cas an idea because he seems interested and apparently hasn't been scared off by the complete and utter dysfunction of Dean's life yet. 

In a way, it isn't much different from before they kissed. He isn't sure what he had expected, but then again, he has never actually kissed anyone without immediately also having sex with them. Maybe it was just a one time thing. Something that'll never happen again. 

It's past 5 PM before Dean even thinks to glance at the clock. They have talked the entire afternoon away and it feels like hardly any time has passed at all. They're curled up on the couch together in sweatpants and Cas' colorful socks and it strikes Dean how homey it feels. This impersonal, old, cramped hotel room feels more welcoming than his own house does. It makes him wonder what Cas' home looks like. Is it a house or an apartment? Is it small or spacious? Clean or cluttered? Does he have a cat? An aquarium maybe? He wants to ask, but Castiel stands up before he gets the chance.

When Cas comes back, he waves the GPS in the air. “Almost forgot this,” he says and Dean laughs. 

“I can't believe you can't figure it out. It literally talks you through the entire setup.”

They sit back down close together, Dean's arm resting on Castiel's thigh so they can both see the display. The setup is quick. The GPS searches for their current location and Dean makes Cas type in his home address and shows him how to save locations as favourites so he can easily access them without having to type them in each time. Cas is like a grandpa with his first piece of electronics. He types slowly, with one stiff index finger and groans a little every time he hits the small keyboard wrong. 

Dean tries to be patient, but he can't always hold back a chuckle when Cas clicks wrong and the glare Cas sends him when he laughs just makes him laugh even more. 

Eventually, Cas holds the GPS while Dean's hand rests against the inside of Cas' thigh, his bent leg resting over Dean's, and it feels natural and comfortable and Dean doesn't wanna get up, but it's getting late and his stomach is painfully empty. 

“Wanna order something from the diner?” Castiel says and Dean perks up because this is his chance to shine. 

“Actually, I figured we could just head over to the store and grab some ingredients. I bet it's been a while since you got a real home-cooked meal.” 

Cas blinks and tilts his head. “They serve hot meals at the diner.”

But Dean huffs and shakes his head. “Not the way I make them. Come on,” he says and gets up off the couch, patting Cas on the shoulder. 

They drive to the store just down the road and Dean decides on Chicken Stroganoff, not because it's particularly impressive, but because it's quick and easy and relatively safe. Afterall, he doesn't know if Cas is picky and he doesn't wanna spend an hour cooking something he might not like. 

Going through the store with Cas, picking out chicken and mushrooms and noodles feels strangely domestic. The store is almost empty and they walk close together, talking quietly, stopping at the pasta section because Cas wants to know the difference between egg noodles and ramen. Dean likes it maybe a little more than he should.

It feels like they've known each other for years. Like they'll drive out of here and go back to their little suburban house with a white picket fence and a poodle, and then Dean laughs to himself because that dream is ridiculous and reality is nothing like it. Him and Cas are not even together.

They split the payment because Dean insists on paying all of it, but Cas doesn't think that's fair when the food is for both of them, and then they drive back to the motel and Dean gets to work in the kitchen. They turn on the radio on Cas' phone and keeps the volume on low so they can still chat, Dean at the stove and Cas leaned against the counter. 

They talk about Dean's interests and his work at the garage. He tells Cas he drove a car for the first time when he was 9 and nearly crashed it into the backyard of an old lady's house because he wasn't tall enough to reach the break pedal. 

“So you've always been interested in cars?”

Dean nods as he flips the chicken on the pan. “That, and my dad has this old Ford f-150 from '82 and he's too cheap to take it to the mechanic, so it's always my job to fix it when it breaks.” He laughs, although it's never really funny when John comes and demands he fixes the car, leaving Dean to pay hundreds of dollars to replace broken or rusty parts. 

“Ever thought about doing it for a living?” he asks, and Dean shrugs.

“I already work in the garage in town part time.”

“But they're not paying you much, are they?”

Dean frowns. “Not really.” The only reason he even got the job was because he managed to charm Jack with his impressive skill set. But the pay is not even enough to cover food costs, especially when he doesn't work more than a few days a week. 

“You could get an education, work full time in a better place than this, with better pay,” Cas argues, but Dean's already shaking his head. 

“You forget the fact that I'm stuck in this shithole and I sort of don't really have time or money to take an education. Besides, we move every few months and I can't exactly afford to commute across several states to get to class.” 

Castiel crosses his legs. “But you said your brother wants to get into Stanford, right? If he gets accepted next year, there's nothing stopping you.”

Dean doesn't like to think about Sam leaving. It means he'll be all alone, drifting with no real purpose, like John's little ghost. “You forget the whole money thing,” Dean says and rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “Look, don't worry about me, Cas. I'll be fine. Dinner's ready,” he says and hands Cas an empty plate.

Thankfully, that's enough to distract Castiel from the subject as intended and they both scoop noodles and chicken onto their plates. 

They eat together on the couch, which is quickly becoming a ritual. The TV is on but once again, none of them are paying attention because Cas is busy praising his cooking skills at every bite he takes and Dean is busy blushing so hard, he's surprised there isn't steam coming out of his ears by now. 

Cas takes their plates away and puts them on the counter and Dean's about to get up and help him do the dishes when Cas returns and leans down and then he's kissing him. Dean moans in surprise and kisses back, and Castiel is smiling when he pulls away. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

Dean just sits there and stares at him for a second before he blinks and licks his lips. “You're welcome. Maybe I should cook for you more often if that's the kind of reward I get,” he teases. 

“Maybe you should.” 

So it wasn't just a one time thing. Dean's just about to think it can't get any better until Cas speaks again and it does. 

“Do you wanna stay tonight?” 

Dean's heart skips a beat, but he tries not to let it show. “Are you sure you can stand my company for such a long period of time? I've heard I can be pretty annoying.”

Castiel just huffs and shakes his head. “Those people must not know you very well,” he says and winks at Dean in that slightly awkward way and fuck, Dean can't remember ever being this into someone before in his entire life. 

He's well and truly fucked.


	8. Chapter 8

They watch Braveheart on TV together until Dean starts nodding off and Cas proposes that it's time for bed. Dean doesn't argue. It's been a long day and the whole police station deal drained him more than he had thought. 

They get ready for bed together. Cas grabs a quick shower and Dean brushes his teeth with two fingers to the best of his abilities. Cas says he can just use his toothbrush, but Dean's not sure he's the toothbrush-sharing kind of guy. 

Dean keeps Cas' clothes on and Cas puts on a pair of loose fitting pyjamas pants and a t-shirt and then they head to bed. They tell each other goodnight, and Castiel turns the light out and then Dean's laying there, staring at the wall, waiting for the hand on his hip or the knee between his thighs.

But it doesn't come.

And then he remembers that Cas isn't a client, he's nothing like them, and he has barely even French kissed him yet. He turns around and glances at Cas in the darkness. He's not sure if he's disappointed or not. He definitely wouldn't mind fucking Cas, given that the guy's even interested in sex. But Dean has to admit he's kind of dying to see what Cas looks like under all those loose fitting clothes. 

Fuck. No. This is not the right time to get a hard on. 

With a groan, he turns back over.

\-------

Dean's alarm goes off at 7.15 and he reaches out to turn it off, but instead of feeling his bedside table under his hand, he fumbles in mid-air. Opening his eyes, he finds himself in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed, and for a moment, his heart skips a beat, but then he recognizes the gruff, sleepy voice coming from somewhere behind him.

“Dean? Is that yours?”

He looks back at Cas. He's bleary eyed and his hair is sticking up in strange angles. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he groans, finding his phone on the motel bedside table and turning the alarm off. “I have a shift at the garage today.”

“What time is it?” Castiel asks and sits up in bed. He runs his hand through his hair, which only serves to ruffle it even further. He looks like he just woke up from a year long hibernation, eyes narrow and cheeks rosy. 

“It's 7,” Dean answers, and he simply can't help but lean across the bed to press a kiss to Castiel's lips. 

It takes Castiel a moment to catch up to what they're doing, but then he cups Dean's face and leans into it, tongue pushing through Dean's lips and holy shit, who would have thought he could be so vigorous and look so sleepy at the same time.

“Easy tiger, I gotta go,” Dean says as he pulls away, but he can't stop smiling. 

Castiel grumbles like it doesn't suit him one bit. “And here I was hoping you were a morning cuddles kind of guy,” he says and pushes out of bed, and it instantly makes Dean wanna call in sick, but he can't risk getting on Jack's bad side.

“Next time,” he promises.

They get dressed together, and Dean steals a shameless side-glance at Cas when he pulls the t-shirt over his head. And fuck. He was right. Cas is cut. Not too much, but enough to give his muscles definition, with a v-line to die for and words spill out of his mouth before he can hold them back. 

“Do you work out?” The moment he says it, he wishes he could jump right into a deep, dark hole, but Cas answers before he can try and salvage his own pride with a smart joke.

“Not really. I run, though,” he says and lifts a pair of sneakers into the air. “Do you?”

“Me? Nah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. Fucking 6-7 clients a night, several times a week is all the workout he needs. 

They kiss each other at the door, Cas makes Dean promise to call and turns left to go for his run while Dean goes right to head towards the garage.  


\-------

The day starts off great. Cas texts him throughout the day and Dean answers whenever he has a break. He asks Cas a bit about his life and finds out he doesn't have any pets, mostly because his brother Gabriel once bought him a goldfish and then killed it one day when he visited and thought he'd try feeding it tacos. 

Dean can't help but go out back to look at the Impala before he goes home. It's still there. All the tires are flat and the rims are starting to rust. All the interior needs changing because the wind shield is so broken, water has been seeping in when it rains and soaked it. The seats are practically mouldy. Dean sighs. He really shouldn't care so much about that stupid, old car. 

John is there when Dean gets home. Sam, too, evident by the closed door to their bedroom. It's only 4 PM, but Dean knows John won't get up off the couch to make dinner, so he might as well busy himself. 

He makes lasagna, because it takes a while and he has time to kill. He's leaned against the counter, amusing himself by researching auto mechanic educations on his phone when Sam sneaks out of the bedroom so silently, Dean doesn't even notice him until he's standing right in front of him.

“Hey, Sammy. What's up?” he asks and puts his phone away.

Sam glances at John on the couch and bites his lip and Dean walks over and stands next to him. “Don't worry about him. He can't hear a thing, and he doesn't care anyway.” 

“I talked to my educations counsellor,” Sam says quietly. “She says nobody will grant me a student loan if my parents are in debt and with dad's credit history....” He glances back at John before continuing. “The amount of money he owes is greater than the number of stars in the sky.” 

Dean nods and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Sam is right. He should have known. It's one of the reasons they move so much. They fall behind on the bills, John drinks away all the money and then borrows more to drink more and once the red envelopes start piling up and officials start banging down their door, they uproot, delete all traces and move on. John has over a dozen credit cards with different false names on them in his wallet and all the pockets of his jeans. 

“We'll figure something out, okay? I promise. We will,” he says and pats Sam on the shoulder. 

Dinner is tense and awkward. John gets up from the couch at the smell of food, and decides to assert his authority by demanding they all eat together like a family at the dinner table, then spends an hour lecturing both of them on their manners until Sam pushes his plate away and slams the bedroom door. Then, Dean has to listen to John's complaints about Sam's behaviour while he does the dishes. 

Dean doesn't text Cas that night. He lies and bed and thinks about what he has to do to ensure Sam gets into Stanford, no matter what it takes. He could take another job, but it would be temporary and low waged. 

The other option is harder to consider. He could walk the streets every night. 4-6 clients a night could bring in around 1000 dollars a week, and then he could set up a savings account for Sam. 

He's not sure he could physically handle that for more than a few months. But maybe that's all he needs. 

He's not sure what he would do afterwards, but at least Sam would be secured and that's the most important thing. It just hurts to accept the fact that he won't have time to see Cas as much as he does now. But maybe they can still stay in touch once Cas returns to California. 

\-------

He works at the garage the next day, too, and it's hard work, but it's what he needs to distract himself. He has costumer after costumer and has to skip lunch to finish working on an old Ford Punto. He spends three hours on a creeper underneath a rusty, old Mazda 323 that would honestly be better off in a scrapyard, and when he stands up, his shoulders and back are cramping and hurt so bad he can barely put his jacket on. 

John is home tonight, and Sam has made an effort not to be, so Dean doesn't want to be, either. 

So he decides to screw it all, just this once, since he's about to become a 24/7 fuckhole for the next three months, and heads to the store. He buys the most expensive, cheap wine he can find, two steaks, a handful of spices and a powder sauce because sauces never were his strong suit. Then he texts Cas.

“I have dinner. Can I come over?”

Cas' reply ticks in 10 seconds later.

“Absolutely!”

He knocks on Cas' door less than thirty minutes later with an abundance of energy and a bag full of groceries in one hand, after having stopped by at home to take a quick shower and change into the newest shirt he owns, a grey henley. Castiel's looking nice, in a pair of fitted jeans and black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like he wants to make up for their missed date at the café. It fills Dean's belly with warmth, and when he leans in to give Cas a hug, he notices that he smells nice, too.

“You shouldn't have!” Cas exclaims when Dean puts the bag on the counter. “I thought you'd just grabbed frozen pizzas or something.” 

“What do you take me for?” Dean asks and huffs. “I'm not gonna serve you frozen pizza, I have my culinary pride to nurture.”

Castiel chuckles and he leans against Dean's back to look over his shoulder as he unpacks the items. “I just mean, I know you're tight on money and I-”

“Cas, don't. I wanted to do this. Okay?” he says and ignores the sudden clench of his stomach. But thankfully, Castiel just smiles and nods.

“Okay.” 

They turn on the radio as Dean gets to work preparing the steaks. Castiel pours them both wine in cheap plastic cups and they drink and joke and Cas dances around to a kitsch song on the radio and Dean hasn't laughed this much in days. They touch, too. And not just casual touches like it's been so far. 

Castiel presses his whole body against Dean's back, hands on his hips and he nuzzles his neck and places a kiss to the bump of his spine and Dean has to concentrate extra hard to avoid overcooking the steaks. 

The steaks end up perfect, after all, and Castiel lights candles to put on the table, even though Dean says it's kinda ridiculous and cliché. 

But he has to admit it looks nice. Like a real date, with home-cooked food and wine and candles and Cas in his nice dress shirt that makes him look way too attractive. 

Cas basically gobbles up his steak, says it's the best meal Dean has cooked so far, although Dean in theory has only cooked for him once before, not counting the muffins. Still, he basks in the praise, soaks it up like a sponge, without wanting to admit that he needs it more than usual today. Though he suspects Cas is gonna praise his cooking no matter what he makes. 

They share the rest of the bottle, Dean drinking a little more than Cas, and they're both feeling slightly buzzed by the time they finish their meal. They're still talking, about anything and everything, stuff Dean can't remember a minute after it's been said, but it doesn't matter. Listening to Castiel's voice and laughter when he goes off on a tangent about the solar system fills an empty space inside him. 

His gaze drops from Cas' eyes to his lips and Dean licks his own as he watches them move, imagines how good they would look parted as he moans, and then he's suddenly out of his seat and he's claiming those lips with his own, tasting steak and wine on them and feeling vibrations as Castiel groans in his throat. 

Hands slide up Dean's sides and it's a soft touch, exploring, caring, and it's way too slow for Dean, who's already tugging on Castiel's shirt. They're both standing now, and Castiel's shirt ends up on the floor as they make their way to the bed. Dean unbuckles his belt, but Castiel catches his hands in his own and Dean growls in frustration when Castiel forces him to pause and places feather light kisses down his neck. 

Then, Cas is tugging on Dean's own shirt to get more space to kiss, and Dean uses it as an excuse to rid himself of his jeans as well. And then his hands are back on Cas, sliding up his sides, and he finally gets to feel those muscles against his palms, that gorgeous runner's body. 

“Cas.”

“Slow down,” Castiel breathes against the side of his neck and kisses him again, those perfect, soft lips against his skin and it feels amazing. 

He tugs on Castiel's belt hoops as he steps backwards and lets himself drop down onto the bed when he feels it against the backs of his knees. Then he quickly works the buttons of Castiel's jeans and tugs down down below his ass, kissing his way down Castiel's belly at the same time. 

“Dean, slow down,” Castiel murmurs again and he runs his hands through Dean's hair too slowly, too softly. 

He pushes Castiel's jeans further down and then his fingers curl around the waistband of Castiel's boxers, but then there's suddenly hands around his wrists and he looks up. 

“Dean, stop. Take it easy. I'm not your client. This doesn't have to be over in 5 minutes.”

Dean's lips part and he swallows. His hands drop onto his lap as an ugly feeling of embarrassment curls in his gut. Cas is right. He doesn't know how to do this, it dawns on him. He only knows how to fuck, hard and fast and rough. 

“Cas, I'm... I don't.. fuck.” He hides his face in his hands. Why can't he ever do anything right? Why does he always fuck it up? How many chances is Cas gonna keep giving him?

Castiel's hands curl around his wrists again, but this time the touch is softer as he gently pulls Dean's hands from his face. When Dean looks up again, Cas is kneeling in front of him, and he doesn't look angry. 

“Let me take care of you,” he says and he cups Dean's face so gently, it feels like he could melt right into the touch. 

Cas steps out of his trousers and walks around the bed, crawling up onto it and then he's guiding Dean onto his belly on the bed. “Cas?” he asks as he stretches out, head turned to the side so he can watch him out of the corner of his eye.

“Just relax,” Castiel says and Dean hears the smile in his voice. 

Then there's hands on his shoulders, rubbing his muscles, stroking down either side of his spine and then back up. Dean moans when Castiel pressed the heels of his palms into the muscles just below his neck.

“Damn, you weren't lying about being sore. You're all tensed up.” 

“Mhmm,” is all Dean can answer, face pressed into the pillows, because Castiel's hands are freakin magic and it feels like he's one second from turning into pure liquid. 

The touch disappears and Dean frowns and opens his eyes. Cas comes back into view a moment later and he hears the pop of a cap. He's just about to ask what he's going on, when Castiel's hands are back on his shoulders, slipping in something wet like oil as he massages Dean's muscles. 

“Is that lube?” he groans and tries to get a look at the bottle discarded on the bed. He hears Cas huff somewhere behind him. 

“No. It's olive oil. Shut up,” he said and Dean can hear he's smiling. Either way, Dean doesn't have any complaints, because this feels fucking amazing. Castiel's thumbs press on either side of his spine and he rolls his palms over his shoulder blades and Dean doesn't ever want it to end. It feels like all that built up energy just seeps out of him like sand in an hour glass. His body tingles all the way out to his fingers and toes and he's not sure how Cas does it, but Dean doesn't think he's ever been so relaxed in his entire life.

“Just relax. I know there's a lot on your mind. Just let it go,” Castiel murmurs, so quietly it's almost a whisper. It feels like Cas is massaging all his walls right down and all he wants to do is focus on those amazing, soft hands kneading his muscles at the small of his back. 

It feels like hot water runs through his muscles, filling him up and lulling him to sleep. He thinks he feels the soft press of Castiel's lips to the small of his back a few times, but he's not entirely sure. When Castiel's hands run over his hips, he moans and spreads his legs. He reaches down with one hand and tugs on one corner of his boxers and Castiel seems to get what he wants, because he helps him pull them all the way off. 

And now he's lying there, naked, sleepy and completely relaxed. And he's feeling incredible. 

“Shit Cas, how did you learn to do this?” Dean murmurs as Castiel trails his hands down over the globes of Dean's ass and back up again. 

Castiel laughs and pours a bit more oil into his palm. “I didn't, really. I've never done this before.”

“Never?” Dean asks and lifts his head and Castiel gestures for him to lay back down. “You're kidding me.”

“I'm not kidding you,” Castiel answers and puts his hands on the back of Dean's thigh, kneading the muscle into the same kind of jelly as the rest of his body. His hands trail up, stroke just under his ass and Dean shifts his hips, because now he can't help but think about how those fingers would feel in his ass. He's just not sure if he can ask for that, so he settles for spreading his legs wider, until he's spread eagle and Cas has to sit between his thighs to reach the other leg. 

He's acutely aware of his ass being on full display, and it doesn't seem to even be getting Castiel's attention. Or so he thinks, until Dean starts to notice a different sound. Its quiet, barely there, and at first he's not quite sure what it is, until it strikes him that Castiel is breathing heavier, lips parted, and Dean hears him swallow twice. 

He dares to push himself up onto his elbows and look over his shoulder, and the first thing he notices is Castiel's obvious erection straining the fabric of his dark blue boxer briefs. Dean licks his lips and meets Castiel's eyes, happy he hasn't completely misjudged the situation. 

Searching the sheets, he finds the bottle of oil and presses it into Castiel's palm, making it clear what he wants as he arches his back a little, pushing his ass into the air. 

Castiel takes the bottle from him, holds onto his hand and kisses the inside of his wrist, and it once again strikes Dean how different Cas is to every man he's ever been with before. 

Cas settles back between his spread legs and he feels the stroke of his hand over his ass, hot breath against the small of his back and then a kiss there a second later. Then Castiel's slick fingers slide down the crease of his ass and Dean moans into the pillow, because he can hardly believe this is actually happening. Right now. 

A single finger presses inside him slowly, so slowly, like Castiel is afraid he's going to hurt him and Dean wants him to know he won't, so he lifts his hips up and presses back against it and he hears Castiel moan in surprise. He can't help but feel a little victorious, cause it's the first real sound he's managed to draw from Castiel's lips. 

Dean wants to tell him to keep going, fill him up, go faster, anything. But Cas told him to slow down. And he was right, Dean doesn't want this to be over in just 5 minutes, so he bites the pillow and forces himself to keep still, hands stroking over the soft sheets. 

Castiel adds a second finger, slides them out and strokes over his hole and then pushes back in in a way that pulls another moan from Dean's throat. His cock is slowly filling, hardening where it's trapped between his body and the mattress and he rolls his hips in little circles, muscles clenching.

“My God, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, and his voice is rough and shaky like he can barely believe his own eyes. It sends another victorious thrill through his body, because he loves that he can make Cas sound that way, with nothing but little movements of his hips. 

Castiel's fingers press against his prostate and Dean moans into the pillow, clutching at the sheets and he hears that rough voice chuckle breathlessly behind him. 

Cas does it again, and again, and Dean is achingly hard now and he moans Cas' name into the pillow, muscles shaking whenever Castiel's fingers brush over that spot that sends sparks throughout his body.

“Fuck, Cas. Just fuck me already,” Dean gasps after almost a minute of this, and it seems to be more than what Castiel is able to resist. 

He feels the bed dip as Castiel leaves him and Dean lies there and just breathes, body still hot and relaxed. He hears the sound of ripping foil, and then Castiel returns to him naked, rolling a condom onto his own hard cock, boxer briefs discarded somewhere, and Dean has to turn over onto his back and watch this, because he can't get over how fucking nice Cas looks.

He leans back a little and drinks in the sight. Cas has a true runner's body, lean and muscley, a smaller frame than Dean's, but still strong. There's a tattoo low on his ribs on his left side that Dean hasn't even noticed until now. Some kind of writing. 

“Still with me?” Castiel asks and cocks his head to catch Dean's eyes. 

“Just admiring the view,” Dean says and smiles. 

“Fair enough, I've been admiring mine for minutes.”

Castiel shifts closer on his knees, and Dean's about to turn back over, when Castiel's hand on his shoulder pushes him back down onto his back. “I wanna see your face,” Castiel says quietly and Dean bites his lip, because that's not what he's used to. He's used to being face down, able to hide.

But he doesn't have to hide from Cas. 

The mattress dips between his legs once more as Castiel settles between them, and he watches, entranced, as he bends down and kisses his way up Dean's belly and chest to his neck, all the way to his lips. Castiel's moan is so deep it sounds like a growl and the sound travels through Dean's entire body and straight to his groin. “I've dreamt about this,” Castiel whispers against his lips and Dean's heart skips a beat, because that means he isn't the only one who's been on this trail of mind. 

He cups Castiel's face and demands another kiss, legs spreading and resting over Castiel's bent thighs. “Cas... Please...” 

Castiel kisses him one more time before he leans back, grabs the lube and pours some into his palm, then slicks himself up with a groan. “And you're sure you still wanna do this?”

Dean raises an eyebrow and pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Are you serious? Dude, I do this for a living,” he says and cringes internally, because he doesn't wanna think about his clients now. Only Cas.

“That's not what I asked,” Castiel says as he shifts forward again and wipes his hand on the sheets.

“I'm sure. Cas. Just fuck me,” he says and shakes his head with a smile, muscles still trembling a little from the mind blowing massage only minutes ago. 

“As you wish.”

Dean lifts his legs higher when Castiel positions the tip of his cock against his hole and pushes in slowly. Too slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Dean groans because he doesn't need this kind of care, he wants Cas' dick in him now. But Castiel insists on keeping everything he does slow, forcing Dean to feel every little thing, ever stretch of muscle, every shaking breath, every little soft kiss Cas presses to the side of his neck. 

A deep sigh escapes Dean when he bottoms out, and Castiel takes his time to place a necklace of kisses all the way from Dean's left shoulder to the right, before he starts moving. His thrusts are deep and slow, dragging on his rim, head of his cock rubbing against Dean's prostate, teasing him with pleasure.

It's not until this has been going on for maybe 30 seconds that it suddenly strikes Dean that something is missing. 

There's no pain. At all. Not even discomfort. Sure, he's not exactly tight as a virgin anymore, and it doesn't always hurt, but it's never actually been pleasant. Or comfortable. 

But this is both. 

A moan rips itself from his throat when Castiel pushes all the way in once more, and it's a genuine sound, a sound he never thought he'd be able to make without putting on an act. He hooks his legs around Castiel's waist and rolls his hips and he hears Castiel pant against his ear, breath shivery. 

“Fuck, Dean.. You're so beautiful,” he gasps, and maybe Dean would normally dismiss a compliment like that, but he doesn't now. He takes it and he basks in it and he slides his hands up Castiel's sides as the speed of his thrusts increase and he can feel Castiel's muscles tense and twitch under his hands. 

They keep this up for a while. Castiel pushing into him, pulling moan after moan from Dean's throat until they're both hot and sweaty, that rough voice whispering sweet nothings into his ear that makes him melt just as surely as the pleasure in his body. 

And then Dean can't hold himself back anymore. He reaches between them and wraps a hand around his cock and jerks himself fast, matching the pace of Castiel's thrusts, and they're both panting and gasping and moaning and this is nothing like anything Dean has ever felt before. 

“Dean...” Castiel's voice is trembling and higher than usual, almost begging, and Dean tells him yes, yes, as he runs his free hand through Castiel's hair. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers, and Castiel does. He moans, deliciously drawn out as he buries himself in Dean's heat, rocks into him as his body locks up and his orgasm sweeps through him. “F-fuck...”

“Fucking gorgeous,” Dean gasps and places open mouthed kisses to the side of Castiel's neck. With Castiel still buried inside him, he strokes himself to completion, muscles tensing and back arching as pleasure shoots through him and he comes, striping his own belly and chest in white, sticky liquid that lands as far as his collarbone. 

“Holy shit... Cas...” he whimpers. Cas holds him close, arms wrapped around the backs of his shoulders as Dean lets go of himself with a shaking hand and they just lie there for a moment, both breathing heavily and sticky with sweat and come. Dean's legs slide down on either side of Cas' knees. 

“That.... was the best orgasm I've had in years,” Dean says after about half a minute of nothing but panting and racing hearts, and he closes his eyes as post-coital pleasure buzzes through his entire body. Cas pulls out slowly, mindful of Dean's relaxed, sensitive state, then lifts his head and smiles and Dean creaks one eye open. 

“Good,” Castiel just says, and that single word is loaded with so much joy and satisfaction, it makes Dean turn his head into the pillow, a blush spreading across his cheeks. Really? He just had Castiel's cock in his ass and a single word makes him blush? 

Castiel lets him go and sits up, carefully pulls the condom off and ties the end. “I'll be right back,” he says and gets out of bed, and Dean is incredibly pleased to note the slight tremble and unsteadiness as Castiel walks away. 

He lies alone in the bed and waits. He should get up and clean himself, because he's sticky and covered in come and olive oil, and he would, if it wasn't for the fact that he has never felt this fucking amazing in his entire life, and all he wants to do is lie here, forever. 

He had no idea that sex could be this good. Sex with Cas is a whole different world. He feels incredible, sated, taken care of. Maybe even a little loved. 

No, scratch that last one. That's ridiculous and dangerous territory. 

Castiel returns with a wash cloth, and Dean takes it gratefully, wiping off the come on his belly and chest and the lube between his legs. 

Cas kisses him again and they head out to the bathroom together. They both shower. Together. And then Castiel presents him with a brand new toothbrush – a green one with little yellow flowers on the handle. “I thought you should have your own if we're gonna make this a regular thing,” Castiel says as he pushes it into his hand, and Dean can't remember ever being this happy about a toothbrush in his life. 

They go to bed shirtless, in just pyjamas pants, and Dean helps Castiel change the sheets before they crawl down under the covers together. Castiel wraps his arms around him and Dean curls up against his warm and solid body, and this is another thing he's not at all used to. Cuddling. 

But the moment he wraps his arms around Castiel in return and fits his head under his chin, nose pressed against his throat where he can inhale his scent, Dean finds out that there is no better thing in the entire world, than cuddling.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so late! I've been juggling a lot of different things recently, but I finally got around to finishing this chapter last night! I'll try not to be so late with the next one.

Dean lays in bed, nose pressed against Castiel's chest, breathing in his scent. He's all loose limbs, sleepy mind, warm body. Cas is asleep next to him. It's that precious moment right when you wake up where everything is perfect and nothing bad could possibly happen, a moment Dean wishes could last just a little longer before reality starts creeping into his mind.

Pushing himself up, he's careful not to wake Cas as he shifts and leans against the headboard. Last night was incredible. Arguably one of the best nights of Dean's life. One of only a few. 

He just can't shake that feeling that this is all temporary. That shadow creeping up on him, whispering in his ear that soon, Cas will be going back home, several states over, and the more attached Dean is, the more it'll suck to let him go. 

Dammit, he's pretty sure he even called Cas 'baby' while they were having sex. He sure as hell doesn't hope Cas remembers that. 

“You're looking thoughtful.” Cas' voice makes him almost jump out of his skin and when he turns his head, Cas is smiling. “Sorry if I startled you,” he says. His hair is sleep ruffled and his cheeks are rosy. 

Dean just smiles a little and doesn't reply, and Castiel pushes himself up onto one elbow and reaches out to put a hand on Dean's leg. “Are you alright? You're not regretting last night, are you?”

“What? No, fuck no,” Dean says and quickly shakes his head. He watches Cas as he pushes all the way up to sit next to Dean, their sides touching. Cas puts an arm around Dean's shoulders.

“What is it?” Castiel asks.

Dean swallows and looks down at his hands. He's not sure why this is such a big deal. Dean doesn't do long term. He doesn't even do relationships. This shouldn't be so hard. So why does the thought of Cas leaving make his heart so heavy?

“Cause you're gonna take off,” he says, after spending over a minute trying to find the least sappy-as-fuck thing to say. 

“You could come with me,” Cas says and Dean shakes his head with a huff.

“You know I can't do that.”

They're both quiet.

“I'm not gonna just take off, Dean,” Cas says slowly. “I'll call you. Every night if you want. And I'll come down to visit, as often as I can.”

Dean rubs his brow, uses it as an excuse to hide his face in his hand for a few seconds. “You do know they all say that, right?” he says, and it sounds more accusing than he means it to, but come on, he knows how this works. Cas is gonna text him and call him every day for a little while, and then it slowly fades out. Maybe he passes a cute guy by on the street and realises Dean's not worth the trouble. That it'd be much easier to just find someone closer to home. 

And isn't that how it always works for Dean? He's not sure why he's so confused. What does he even want? He's been dating Cas for what... a few days? And now he's suddenly demanding they get serious?! Talk about clingy. 

Damn, he's losing his mind.

“Sorry, just forget it,” Dean says and he huffs out a smile, despite how Castiel only copies it hesitantly. Castiel opens his mouth to say more, but Dean interrupts him, because he doesn't wanna talk about this any more. 

“How about some breakfast? You still have some of that pancake mix, right?” 

\-------

They eat breakfast together, and then Cas brings out his photo albums and his star maps and whatever else he calls all his stuff. They spread out on the floor. Dean listens to Cas talk and looks at the pictures. The stuff's actually a lot more interesting than he thought. All that stuff about cold stars and exploding stars and black holes is pretty cool. 

There's a question burning at the tip of Dean's tongue in the silence after Castiel finished explaining how new stars are born. He has asked it once before, and Cas had evaded the question, but things are different now, so he dares to ask again.

“How come you're not doing this stuff for a living? It doesn't sound like you're that excited about your office job.”

Castiel sighs and runs a hand through his hair, elbows rested on his bent knees where he's sitting cross-legged across from Dean. “I'd have to go back to school to get an education in astronomy. Michael is paying me a generous salary to keep me around, and without it, I don't think I can afford my current apartment. I'd have to move, it'd be complicated.” He frowns and looks like he wants to say more, so Dean waits until he speaks again. “Maybe I've been a little scared to try, in case I fail and Michael hands me a big, fat 'I told you so'.” 

“Your brother sounds like a dick. Who cares what he thinks,” Dean says and shrugs. Maybe he's being a bit of a hypocrite, considering Sam's opinion is the one thing that matters most to him in the world.

“Sounds like we both want something better for each other, huh?” Castiel says. Dean huffs and nods slowly. 

\-------

They spend the morning and the afternoon together. It's almost like they're living in their own little world that consists only of the motel room and occasionally the diner when they get hungry. 

They curl up on the couch and watch documentaries about the universe that Castiel has on DVD, part 1 of no less than 25 exciting tales about the vast universe, but they only get halfway through the first one before Dean falls asleep. It's not really his fault. The narrator has the most sleep inducing voice in existence, and the solar eclipse isn't exactly the most thrilling topic. But neither of them mind because they're practically spooning on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and each other's warmth. 

Dean doesn't tell Cas that he plans to work every night. He'll still be free to see him 4 days a week during the daytime. Being out fucking guys every single night doesn't really feel like something you casually share with the guy you just started dating.  
But Dean doesn't go out that night. He can't. Or rather, he doesn't wanna end his nice, relaxing day with Cas out on the streets. Somehow, it feels a little bit like cheating. Even though that's a stupid mindset, because it's not cheating, it's work. Cas already know what he does and he doesn't mind. 

Dean goes to sleep content and happy for the last time in a while.

\-------

Dean starts operation 'Save Up For Sammy' the next day. He cooks dinner, and him and Sam eat together, he takes a shower and they watch a bit of TV and then he leaves at 9 and comes back home at 1. 

It goes on like that for four days before it starts to get tough.

Somehow, fucking clients is a lot harder after he fucked Cas. He's not sure why, but the hard hands and hard words and the rough fucks get to him more than usual. Maybe it's cause he didn't know what it was really supposed to be like before, when this was all he knew and it didn't seem so bad. But now, for some reason, he can't help but compare these guys to Cas, these guys that shove him down and call him names. Whore, fucktoy, bitch. And then he thinks about Cas who touched him like he was made of gold, called him beautiful, amazing. 

He can't fucking switch it off. And it's driving him crazy. 

There's a physical side to it, too. He aches every day, in every imaginable place. Elbows, knees, back, shoulders, ass. Everywhere. The bruises are constant tattoos on his hips. He showers two, sometimes three times a day, but he still feels dirty. On the fourth day, he shows up at the garage after a night on the streets with two large cups of coffee, one in each hand. 

He doesn't get to see Cas much, either. They text and call, but Dean's working all day on Monday and Tuesday and Cas is busy Wednesday and then Dean has work again Thursday. It feels awful to come up with excuses as to why he can't stop by after dinner time. 

The only good thing about this brand new nightmare is the pay. After four nights on the street, Dean counts his money on his and Sam's bedroom floor while Sam's in school. 760 dollars after just four nights. That's more than he expected. It'll exceed his 1000 dollar per week goal if he's lucky. 

He hides the money under a loose floorboard under the left front leg of his bed, but he'll have to find a better place for it, soon. 

\-------

He spends the next day on Cas' couch, curled up in blankets with a cup of hot chocolate. He feels a little bad, cause he had planned to make them both a nice lunch to make up for all the time he spends hanging around at Cas', but he ends up falling asleep stretched out on the couch and he doesn't wake up until Cas places a tuna salad sandwich on the coffee table in front of him. He smiles, despite still feeling a little guilty. 

“Hey, I was wondering if you could take a look at my car, sometime,” Castiel says in the middle of their game of fish after they finish lunch. “It doesn't have to be right now, but it wouldn't start last night when I wanted to go to the store,” he said with a frown, handing Dean his aces. “It's strange. I've had it for two years and it's never given me trouble before.”

“I'll look at it after the game,” Dean says, eager to prove his worth after he so rudely fell asleep on the couch.

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas suddenly asks, ignoring Dean's 'fish' and his cue to take a card from the pile. “You look tired.”

“Oh, you know, I've been busy. Not much sleep,” he says and decides to hand Cas a card from the pile himself when he doesn't make to pick one up.

“Remember to take care of yourself,” Castiel says before asking for Dean's sevens. 

“Fish. Don't worry, Cas. I'm fine. Promise.”

Castiel gives him a suspicious look and Dean's grateful. He has limited time with Cas and he doesn't wanna waste it. 

\-------

It only takes him a moment to figure out what's wrong with Cas' car. “Hear that?” he asks as he turns the key and there's a whirring sound coming from the engine. Castiel nods. “Is it bad?” he asks, sounding almost like he's just about to be told he needs a brand new car.

Dean laughs. “Nah, man. It's just the battery that's drained. All these little 2 minute trips to the store and the diner drains the battery. It needs longer drives to recharge and it's not getting it. What this car needs is a good, long ride.”

“How am I suppose to do that when I can't start it?” Castiel asks and he sounds so frustrated that Dean can't help but feel bad for him. He gets out of the car and closes the door before cupping Cas' face and kissing him softly, right there in the parking lot, butterflies doing backflips in his stomach. 

“Don't worry, I can get a charger from Jack's garage, she just needs some juice and she'll be ready to go.” 

Dean stops by the garage the next day on his day off and borrows a charger with the promise to bring it back the next day (or face Jack's eternal wrath, apparently). When he shows up at Cas' door with the charger under his arm, Cas opens the door for him and waves a bundle of cash in front of his face.

Dean stares at it. “What's that for?”

“For fixing my car,” he says and smiles, practically tries to push the money down Dean's breast pocket. 

“Dude. It didn't cost anything to fix. I literally just borrowed a charger.”

But Castiel huffs and continued to shove bills down Dean's pocket. “It's for the trouble,” he says, and Dean raises an eyebrow. He puts the charger down and takes the money. It takes him only a second to count them and his gaze snaps back up. “Cas, no. This is 150 dollars.”

Cas narrows his eyes at him. “Yes, I'm aware.” 

He shakes his head and holds the money out. “It's too much.”

Castiel sighs deeply and cocks his head at him. “If I hadn't had you to tell me what was wrong with it, I would have taken it to a mechanic and they would have charged me 150 just to look at it and another 150 to charge it for me. So please, Dean.” 

He feels torn. He meant to fix Cas' car as a favour, to prove that he's good for something else other than just lounging around on his couch and cook his dinner. But if Cas wants to pay him, it'd be rude to refuse, right? In the end, Dean counts out 50 and hands them back to Cas. “I'll take 100. Boyfriend discount,” he says, and then he slams his mouth shut. 

Heat rises to his face. He said boyfriend. Boyfriend?! Cas isn't his boyfriend. They just started dating a week ago. Dean doesn't do boyfriends, he doesn't do love, he doesn't... 

Cas interrupts his mental panic by leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Dean's lips and it's enough to make him release all the air he had been holding. 

“Okay, so... Let me just hook this up,” Dean stammers as he gestures to the charger and then picks it up. 

Setting up the charger only takes a minute. When he's done, and the Prius is happily charging in the parking lot with the hood open, he heads back over to Cas. “Busy tonight?” he asks and sits down next to him on the curb from where he has been watching. With an extra 100 dollars, he could afford to take a night off from the streets and spend it with Cas.

Cas grimaces. “Yeah, actually. I have a Skype meeting with Michael,” he says, in the same tone of voice as if he's going to get teeth pulled at the dentist. “God knows what he wants to bother me about during my vacation that can't wait until I get home.”

“Your brother sounds more and more like a pain in the ass,” Dean comments. Damn. 

“I'll be free tomorrow night, though. Do you wanna come over? Or we could go out.”

“Out?” Dean asks, eyebrows raising. “Out where?” 

“I don't know. You know the area. Bowling alley?”

Dean almost chokes on his breath and laughs. “Seriously, Cas? You wanna go bowling?”

Castiel glares at him. “It was just a suggestion. I'd probably be awful at it, too.”

“Wait... you've never been bowling?” Dean asks, eyes lighting up in a smile. “That's it. I'm taking you bowling.”

“No, Dean...” Castiel protests, but Dean is already on his feet and going back inside, avoiding Cas' attempts at talking him out of big balls and bowling shoes. 

\-------

Dean rides the high of having a date with Cas the entire rest of the day. It makes all the other crap a little easier, knowing he gets a chance to make up for the disaster of their last real date. And come on, bowling is fun. He'll buy some beers and they'll have a good time. 

He goes home, eats dinner with Sam (in their room because John is home and raging drunk), and then Sam heads out to sleep at a friend's. Dean checks that he has everything – condoms, phone, keys, and then he heads out, too.

It's getting colder and colder. It's still early November, but the wind is so chilly that not even his leather jacket can keep him warm. His feet are cold, too, but he only has one pair of sneakers and no boots. 

A car drives by him slowly as he walks down the dark, empty street and he tries to catch the driver's eye and smile, but he drives on. He knows a spot where he's guaranteed to find costumers, at the edge of town behind the apartment buildings. He doesn't go there often. A few gangs of young guys like to hang out there and they'll mug you if they see you walking alone. But everything seems quiet and peaceful tonight, so he takes the chance. 

As he leans against the broken metal link fence, a man comes out of the apartment block opposite him. He walks towards him and Dean follows his movements with his eyes as he approaches. He's a big guy, tall and broad, but most of it is muscle. 

“Up for a fuck?” the guy asks and fiddles with his hands. “Me and my friend, both of us.”

Dean nods. “80 dollars, condoms stay on,” he says and fishes one out of his pocket, waving it in the air. The guy nods and turns around and Dean follows him. The second guy comes out of the apartment block and walks over to them. The two guys have a similar build, both with shaved heads and around 40. “Got a place?” Dean asks and the guy stares at him for a moment before he looks around. 

“Nah, Just here,” he says. Dean resists a deep sigh before he waves them towards a narrow alley between two buildings. It's not ideal. He'd rather be in a car or under some stairs, somewhere a little more sheltered. Out here in an open alley, he feels exposed. But it'll have to do. He's not gonna say no to 80 dollars.

“Here,” one of the guys say, and the other counts out 80 dollars that Dean quickly double checks and sticks in his jacket pocket. A condom is rolled on, a little travel sized package of lube is ripped open and then Dean's pushed down hard onto the concrete with his pants around his ankles. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean bites out when the first guy pushes in without hesitation. Dean blinks, willing his body to adjust to the fairly large dick in his ass as the guy fucking him starts to thrust in fast and shallow. The other guy is somewhere to his left, lazily stroking his own cock, leaned against the grey brick wall. 

It takes him a few moments to compose himself, and then he throws himself into the usual act. Moaning, pushing back, replying to comments of 'you want my cock?' with 'yes, please, fuck me'. 

The concrete is hard and unforgiving on his knees and elbows. He pushes himself up onto his hands because he doesn't wanna ruin the leather of his jacket, but a hard hand pushes him back down onto his elbows so hard his forehead scrapes the ground and he groans. 

A few minutes pass like this, and then a new sensation makes him look back up. It's raining. Ice cold droplets against his face and naked thighs. The ground in front of him is colored dark in spots and it turns darker and darker as he watches it. 

There's a pause behind him. The first guy has finished and Dean looks over his shoulder to make sure fucker number 2 remembers the condom. It's easier this time, he's gotten used to it, but his elbows and knees are really starting to hurt. 

This guy takes longer to finish. It feels like 10 minutes, but it's probably closer to 5. Dean looks up and his heart skips when he meets the eyes of a third guy. He's just standing there, with his arms crossed, leaned against a dumpster with a cigarette between his teeth, watching Dean get fucked. He holds eye contact, completely unashamed like he's watching animals in a zoo. Dean looks down and he bites his lip. When he raises his head again, a second guy comes out of a door just behind the first one and he stops to watch as well. 

Dean can feel his heart racing. He doesn't like this. He's not a fucking freakshow, he's just doing his job, he doesn't need an audience. The guys murmur something between themselves and laugh, and Dean can feel his face turn red. 

Fucker number 2 pulls out, and Dean's about to get up, but there's still a hand against his back. “Want a go?” he says, and Dean looks up and realises he's talking to the two onlookers. They walk closer and the first guy gestures for Dean to get up. 

“It's 40 per dick,” the big guy says and Dean's about to say he doesn't give out any more fucks tonight, because he's surrounded by 4 guys who very well could just take his money and leave. But maybe that's exactly why he shouldn't piss them off. So he just gets to his feet and hands out condoms and then he's fucked again, first against the brick wall and then bent over a dumpster that smells like something has been dead inside for a very long time. One of them, maybe the fourth guy, grabs his cock mid-fuck and tries to jerk him off, but Dean is soft and he doesn't think there's a single thing in the entire world that could get him hard right now. 

“That was not worth 40 bucks,” one of the guys say as they tuck themselves back into their pants and Dean pulls his jeans back up. 

They laugh. 

The edges of his vision is dark, he can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he watches them walk away. He has the strange feeling that he's just been used. Maybe that's all it's ever been. Maybe he's always been fooling himself. He earned 160 dollars in just 30 minutes, but for the first time, it doesn't feel so good.

He swallows the bile in his throat as he walks away. The rain has soaked his clothes and he's so cold he's shivering. Everything aches, his elbows are rubbed raw. Every time he blinks, he sees Castiel's gentle smile, the way he touched him when they were together, those butterfly soft kisses to his belly and the insides of his thighs. What does Cas even want with him? He's just a used, fucked out whore. All he's good at is fucking guys on street corners and he's not even sure if he's good at that any more. When he can't do that, what does he have left? 

\-------

Dean sees how bad it really is the next morning. There are angry, red scrapes on his knees and elbows, and after working for six nights straight, sitting down is starting to become a bit of an unpleasant experience. He hadn't exactly taken that into consideration when he did his calculations, but considering how nicely the pile of cash under the loose plank under his bed is piling up, he can easily take a day off each week. Which is exactly what he'll be doing today, on his date with Cas to the bowling alley. 

He didn't really sleep last night. He tossed and turned, checked his phone a dozen times and almost texted Cas (which he decided against because that would be a weird thing to do at 3 AM), and finally fell asleep around 5. Sam's alarm clock woke him at 6.30, and after another hour of tossing and turning, he fell back asleep. It's just before noon now, and he's eating breakfast on the couch alone.

He's not sure why last night got to him more than usual. Maybe it's cause it was cold and raining and there were people watching. Maybe it's cause he couldn't stop thinking about Cas. But he still can't shake that feeling of wrongness, of humiliation and... He rubs his brow and forces down another spoonful of cereal. Maybe a shower will make him feel better. 

\-------

He meets up with Cas in the motel parking lot just after 5 PM. His head and body still feels weird, but seeing Cas leaned against the Prius, waiting for him, makes it a little easier to forget. “It's good to see you,” Cas says when Dean reaches him and Castiel hugs him before they get in the car. Dean is pleased to see the GPS turned on and ready. He knows the way to the bowling alley one town over, but he's gonna give Cas the satisfaction of showing off how well he's able to use the device now. 

Just as Dean had predicted, he makes a show out of typing in the address that Dean gives him. Dean keeps quiet. He wonders if Cas has any idea how adorable he looks.

They eat dinner at the bowling alley before they get started. Places like that don't tend to serve the best food, but the burgers and fries are actually pretty alright. Cas especially seems to enjoy the meal. 

“How'd your Skype meeting go?”

Castiel rolls his eyes in an exasperated gesture. “Boring. Taxes, revenue. I think he spent half the meeting indirectly criticising my categorization abilities.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and chews on his bite of burger slowly. “Damn.” 

Dean decides to drop the subject, since talking about his brother doesn't seem to put Castiel in a particularly good mood. 

Cas looks thoughtful, and then he picks up a fry and dips it in ketchup. “How much do I have to pay you to hand-feed you this fry?” he asks with the hint of a smile.

Dean's jaw drops. “A million dollars,” he says and looks down, feeling the blush creep over his cheeks. God damn it. 

“No, a reasonable number,” Castiel pushes and Dean looks back up at him with wide eyes.

“I'm not letting you feed me in public. That's ridiculous,” he says, looking around at the families and the staff walking around. 

“Please?” Castiel begs and wiggles the fry. Dean's face turns impossibly redder.

“I hate you,” he says and stares down at his own plate, stubbornly ignoring Castiel's wiggling fry. 

“It was your idea coming here, you'll have to deal with the consequences,” Castiel teases and Dean can hear him smiling, even without looking up. 

“Are you done eating?” Dean asks and looks back up, pushing his empty plate aside. Castiel raises and eyebrow, but simply nods and puts down the fry.

As it turns out, Castiel is just as awful at bowling as they had anticipated. He throws almost all his balls in the gutter, only managing to knock over a few pins. At one point, Dean decides to turn a lesson on ball handling into one big, whispered sexual innuendo and they end up both laughing too much to do any proper throws. 

All in all, it's great. Dean wins by a landslide, and Castiel pulls him into the corridor that leads to the guest bathrooms and kisses him deeply as a prize. This date is exactly what Dean needs to unwind. Which is exactly why his heart drops like a stone when the clock strikes 9 PM and someone from the staff comes in and tells them they're closing up. They abandoned the bowling lane about an hour ago in favour of simply talking, and Dean is interrupted mid-sentence in an explanation about why classic cars are so much better than all the modern, plastic crap they build now a days. 

He looks around. They're the only people here, except for another couple who's already packing up. Dean gets ready slowly, and then he laughs to himself because he can suddenly relate to Cinderella and how she has to rush out of the ball when the clock strikes 12 and leave her handsome prince behind.

He's quiet on the car ride back, the street lamps lighting up his face every other second as he leans his brow against the window. He can see Cas glance over at him a few times, but he doesn't move until he suddenly feels a light touch to his leg. He sits upright and looks at Castiel's hand on his thigh. He covers it with his own.

“Is everything okay?” Castiel asks. 

Dean nods before he says it out loud. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Is it something I did?” Castiel asks hesitantly and Dean's eyes widen and his lips part.

“No! No, not at all. Fuck, Cas. I had a great time tonight. You looked sexy as hell in those bowling shoes,” he jokes and gives Cas' hand a squeeze. “I'm just tired.” 

He hasn't told Cas about how he works every night now, and he wants it to stay that way. He doubts it's the kind of thing you wanna hear from the guy you're dating. Kissing Cas one day and out fucking a stranger the next. 

They pull up in front of the motel and head inside. As soon as the door closes, Castiel wraps his arms around Dean and Dean practically melts against his body and rests his head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and they just stand there for a little bit. He feels the rise and fall of Cas' chest against his own, the heat of his body. He's almost certain he could fall asleep like this, especially with the way Cas' hand strokes slowly up and down his back.

“I had a wonderful time. Wanna stay?” Castiel murmurs, so quietly that Dean has to concentrate to hear what he's staying. “We can go to bed early, I'll make tea.” 

Dean screws his eyes shut and and buries his face against the side of Cas' neck. All he wants right now is to stay. “I can't,” he says finally. Sam is home tonight, and so is John. He had promised Sam he'd be there so he wouldn't have to sleep alone in the house with their dad there. When Dean's not around, John tends to take out his frustrations on Sam once he gets a little too drunk. 

“Okay,” Castiel says softly, and he leans his head back and cups Dean's face, stroking his cheeks gently. “I'll text you.”

“You better,” Dean says and manages a smile. Stepping out of Cas' embrace is almost painful, but he forces himself not to think too much about warm blankets and cuddles in bed and Castiel's awful tea that's kinda growing on him. 

\-------

John is already home when Dean gets there, and judging by the smell in the house, he's been downing beer for a while. After toeing off his shoes and heading through the living room, his suspicion is confirmed. There's 3 empty bottles lined up on the table, two on the floor and another in John's hand. 

Dean walks by him into his and Sam's room and the first thing he sees turns his blood to ice. 

It feels like his heart stops for a full three seconds before he remembers to breathe. The loose floorboard has been removed and his bed pushed aside and the little space under the floor where he's been hiding his cash is empty.

Completely empty.

“No, no, no.” He falls to his knees and sticks his hand into the hole, feels all around the sides, which is useless because the space is not that big and it's clearly empty. He even picks up the wooden plank and turns it over before putting it back down. Standing back up, he runs shaking hands through his hair as he paces around the small bedroom. 

The money's gone. His money. Close to a thousand dollars. He fucked at least 20 guys for that money. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-” He grips his hair, tears streaming down his face. Rage and frustration boils over inside him and he kicks the bedside table and knocks the lamp off it's surface so it hits the wall, the light bulb breaking with a sound of shattering glass. “FUCK!” 

That money was his. He worked so damn hard for it. It was for Sam. It was all he had. 

John took it. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he marches into the living room and places himself between the couch and the TV, staring down at his father. 

“You've been in my room,” Dean says, voice shaking with barely contained anger. John doesn't answer, he's looking at Dean's leg with half-lidded eyes, like he's trying to look straight through him at the TV. 

“You've been in my fucking room, you took my fucking money,” Dean says again, voice loud, bordering on yelling and he leans down and grabs John by the collar and shakes him.

“Where's my money? Say something you piece of shit,” Dean shouts, tears trickling down his face again. John doesn't care. He doesn't even seem to look at him. He just stares into space, somewhere just below Dean's shoulder.

He gives up, it's no use anyway. The money is gone, John probably already spent it all. 

He turns and walks away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John take another drink from his bottle of beer, before Dean slams the bedroom door shut. 

It was all a waste. The late nights and the rain and the scraped knees and elbows, not to mention the dicks in his throat and up his ass, all the mocking nicknames he took silently without hissing back a 'fuck you'. He feels pathetic. Ridiculous. Useless. 

He feels like a failure. A big, disgusting failure.

He doesn't bother undressing and brushing his teeth, he just crawls into bed like he is and curls up. He hears Sam come home, the door opening and closing and then the bedroom door opens. 

“Dean?” Sam asks quietly, when he sees the mess and the broken lamp. “What happened?”

Dean doesn't answer, so Sam leaves him alone. 

His alarm clock goes off at 7 AM the next morning, and he lets it ring until it stops. For the first time since he started working at Jack's garage, he doesn't come into work.


End file.
